


I Am a Creature of Cold Nothing

by Lemon_Haze



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Control Issues, Dark Sansa, Dom!Sansa, Dominance, Everybody has daddy issues, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, House Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon Snow is a clueless disaster bi, Kink, Minor Canonical Character(s), Multi, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Partners to Lovers, Queen in the North, Scars, Semi-Public Sex, So I'm fixing it, Strategy & Tactics, The North Remembers (ASoIaF), The Prince That Was Promised, Trauma, Trust Issues, Valonqar Prophecy, War, Warg Jon Snow, Warg Sansa Stark, Warging, Wargs, slow burn but for their emotions, the show runners fucked up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-01-27 21:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 71,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12590852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_Haze/pseuds/Lemon_Haze
Summary: Sansa Stark has fled Winterfell, and has reunited with Jon Snow. His army plans to take back Winterfell and the control of the North. A raven carries a message, a promise of a meeting on the wind. Sansa and Brienne of Tarth ride to Molestown to meet with Petyr Baelish. She thinks she understands Petyr Baelish more now than ever, after her treatment at Ramsay's hands. She comes to this meeting with ideas of her own.Canon divergence from the scene in Molestown.





	1. The Meeting in Molestown

 

 

 

Petyr Baelish looked like he was about to sink to his knees right there, in the mud and straw of the sacked brothel of Molestown. His face was pale, eyes looking up at Sansa Stark and the steel of the blade her tall protector brandished. Sansa heard it behind her, the soft hiss of steel as it was pulled from the leather sheath. She was learning to like that sound. A sound that could warn but also foretell doom—for anyone who dared harm her.

     That was what she told herself, anyway.

     But her breasts ached from more than the cold. Ramsay’s kiss, her husband had called it, smugly, when he’d admired his handiwork.

 

     After Ramsay left that day, and she was alone in the locked chamber, Sansa looked down at herself. Her small, curved breasts had cuts on them. Teeth marks, smears of dried blood, and bruises. Ramsay had clamped two metal pins to her nipples, and left them on for so long that she was sure they’d fallen off and taken both nipples with them.

     When he took the pins off, he’d given one nipple a flick—a test.

     Sansa remembered the soft gasp of pain, breaking her vow to not cry before him. She’d never been able to keep that vow. Ramsay had laid her bare. Emptied her. Her goal each night was to hold on to those threads of her that still felt like Sansa Stark. She had to resist, to avoid crying, for as long as possible.

     This is not me, she remembered thinking. I am supposed to be stronger within the walls of Winterfell. But she was not. She remembered her reflection in the glass, that day. The bruises around her neck were old, so she expected those.

     But the blood smeared on her breasts carried the lingering wetness of Ramsay’s tongue. Sansa felt it and saw it. There was more blood than she’d expected. Sansa remembered how careful she’d had to be just to clean herself. Each cut burned with some little movement, or reacted to a cool cloth like it was laced with salt.

 

“Lady Sansa asked you a question,” Brienne said, her voice bringing Sansa back to the present.

She smelled the oil used to polish steel—or was it burnt oil from the lamps of a ransacked brothel? She was half-tempted to peek back at Lady Brienne, to see her draw that giant sword bedecked in glittering finery. Petyr Baelish enjoyed pretty things, so it would only be fitting if he met his end from something pretty enough to covet. Sansa didn’t really care for swords, and that was a gaudy, but powerful thing, that Valyrian steel sword. Anyone would feel powerful holding that sword.

     “What do you think he did to me?” Sansa’s question still hung in the air, and she could hear Brienne’s mailed glove rasp along the hilt of Oathkeeper.

     “He beat you?” Petyr Baelish’s voice was softer, more subdued. It only emboldened her.

     “Yes, he enjoyed that. What else do you think he did?”

     “Sansa, I don’t—”

     “What else?” Sansa asked, interrupting him swiftly and decisively. She saw him shake his head, a slow, gentle movement, wincing as though in sympathetic pain.

     “Did he cut you?”

     Perhaps she imagined it, but his voice sounded hoarse. Was it regret that he felt? Or frustration at being held accountable for his betrayal? One of many, she was sure.

     “Maybe you did know about Ramsay all along,” she said. If he did, then Sansa wanted him to die, here, in this hovel of a wrecked whorehouse. No, she wanted him to suffer, to twist the knife in until he thought she was fucking him.

     “I didn’t know,” he insisted.

     “I thought you knew everyone’s secrets,” Sansa replied. She parroted his own smug words back to him. But he didn’t look so smug now. His Adam’s apple quivered, and Sansa saw the hurt on his face, the way he cringed and she knew he was picturing what her husband had done to her body in Winterfell.

     “I made a mistake. A horrible mistake. I underestimated a stranger,” Petyr said.

     “The other things he did, ladies aren’t supposed to talk about those things, but I imagine brothel keeps talk about them all the time,” Sansa continued. She didn’t care about his apologies, or the way he almost sounded breathless. Were those tears in his eyes?

     The way he winced in pain at her words made the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes stand out. It made him look older, with the silver at his temples even lighter, whiter, than she remembered. He looked worn.  

     “I can still feel it,” she told him. There was a tremor in her voice that she fought to quash. “I don’t mean ‘in my tender heart, it still pains me so,’ I mean I can feel what he did in my body, standing here right now.” Sansa promised herself that she would shed no tears, not in front of this man. But her voice shook; somehow, she was grateful for and embarrassed by Lady Brienne’s presence all at once.

     Petyr Baelish frowned. “I’m so sorry,” he said slowly, his expression open.

     “You said you would protect me—”

     “And I will,” Petyr said, interrupting her this time. “You must believe me when I tell you that I will.”

     His arrogance was astounding.

     “I don’t believe you anymore,” Sansa told him. “I don’t need you anymore, you can’t protect me. You won’t even be able to protect yourself if I tell Brienne to cut you down.”

     Petyr Baelish’s hands were curled, half into fists, but also in constant motion. Fidgeting. He was nervous around Brienne. He should be nervous around her. Sansa had seen what Brienne was capable of, in the hollow when they were surrounded by Ramsay’s men.

     “And why shouldn’t I?” Sansa demanded. Petyr glanced at Brienne before he returned his gaze to Sansa, biting his lip and giving her a mournful look.

     “If you want me to beg for my life—if that’s what you want—I will,” Petyr told her. “Whatever you ask that is in my power…I will do.”

     “What if I want you to die, here and now?”

 

     Sansa heard the words and enjoyed them, enjoyed teasing the possibility of wanting his death, and only that. Of being driven enough by hate to have him murdered and abandoned in this ruined village.

     “Then I will die,” Petyr Baelish said simply.

     “You freed me from the monsters who murdered my family…and you gave me to other monsters who murdered my family,” she breathed, feeling her nostrils flare.

     How dare he say that, and so casually, after all that she’d been through. He doesn’t know what it’s like to die, Sansa thought. What it feels like to have the air choked out of you, or the white-hot pain of a small, thin knife, biting deep into flesh until it carved a latticework of agony and blood. Where each new moment was somehow worse than the last, and every night she learned there were new places on her body capable of pain. Sansa Stark had died—or thought she was about to die—more than once with Ramsay Bolton.

     “Go back to Moat Cailin,” Sansa told him. “My brother and I will take back the North on our own—I never want to see you again.”

     Littlefinger closed his eyes in pain, briefly, and it further enraged her. She doubted that whatever he felt was anything close to days’ old leftovers of Ramsay’s. He didn’t care for her, and he’d already made that clear by his actions. His words she couldn’t trust.

     “I would do anything to undo what’s been done to you,” Petyr Baelish said quietly. He blinked away tears. “I know that I can’t. Will you allow me to say one more thing before I go?”

 

     He spoke of her great-uncle Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, who had taken back Riverrun from the Freys and Lannisters. Whose forces could be an army loyal to her. Sansa replied with the obvious fact that she already had an army—albeit Jon’s army—and tried to sound defensive, yet defiant. She knew he would counter with a reminder that they were loyal to Jon, her half-sibling.

     Lord Petyr Baelish took the bait and tried to undermine her. He spoke, but she could only recognize an attempt to get her to doubt Jon, to doubt the veracity of this wildling army that he had at his back.

     “Your half-brother,” Baelish reminded her. He continued walking out, but Sansa turned after him.

     “Stop.” She spoke the words almost eagerly, wanting to see him face her again. This wasn’t like him, to give up so easily. This was poorly plotted on his part. Would he just leave her be, give up and be grateful to retain his life after this meeting?

 

     “Lady Brienne, check the perimeter of this building, then the rest of the town,” Sansa said. It was a small town, but still, it would take some minutes to check Molestown in its entirety.

     “My lady, I don’t think that—”

     Sansa interrupted the large woman with a shake of her head. “No,” she said. “I’m sure you have further thoughts, but I don’t need to hear them right now. I can shout well enough for you to hear me, should I be in any real danger,” she told Brienne. She could see the hesitation in Brienne’s eyes, the glare she shot at Littlefinger.

     “Go, Brienne. I’ll be fine,” Sansa insisted.

     Before Petyr Baelish could open his mouth, Brienne shot him another look. She simply stared at him, long enough that Sansa thought Brienne might not follow her order after all. But when the long moment had passed, the tall woman sighed, sheathed her sword, and took her leave.

     “Thank you, Sansa, for allowing us some privacy,” Petyr said.

     He opened his mouth to say more, but Sansa slapped him.

     She felt the sting of her palm against his stubbled cheek, felt him recoil with the sudden pain. Sansa felt an immense pleasure at his look of bewilderment.

     “That felt very satisfying, you should know,” Sansa told him. “You said you would do anything in your power for me.”

     “Yes,” Petyr agreed.

     “Lord Baelish—”

     “Petyr, please. Call me Petyr,” he said, cutting her off.

     Sansa slapped him again.

     “Don’t interrupt me again. Petyr.” That was her one and only concession to his interjection.

     This time, Petyr Baelish simply nodded in understanding. He looked up at her, waiting for her to continue speaking. This must be a first, she thought. Blessed silence from Petyr ‘Littlefinger’ Baelish.

     “You had me right where you wanted me, half in love with you and your promises of protection,” Sansa continued, almost rolling her eyes at the memory. “And then you sold me. To Ramsay Bolton, a bastard who raped, tortured, and murdered women who came before me. Many women. His pet, Myranda, told me all about them. He took her on a hunt with his hounds, sometimes, when he wanted her to see what could become of a pretty face, a pretty body, when the hounds’ve been at it.”

     Petyr’s eyes were wide. “I didn’t know, Sansa.”

     This time he was ready; he caught her hand before she struck his cheek a third time. Sansa pulled her hand free—was it always this easy to pull free from his grasp? —and she shot him a look of pure venom.

     “Then you’re not half as clever as you claim to be. Or maybe you like your women…soiled,” she suggested, the word sour and unpleasant on her tongue. Petyr shook his head, frowning, but he didn’t interrupt her again.

     “Maybe you liked Aunt Lysa before she fucked you, or maybe you only liked her after Jon Arryn took her.” Sansa could see the words were affecting him. She hoped they wounded him. “Maybe you liked my mother after my uncle Brandon claimed her, after my father married her,” Sansa continued. “Soiled by other men. Petyr Baelish has always been happy to scoop up seconds.”

     “Stop. Please.” Petyr’s words were so quiet she barely heard them. “That isn’t true, Sansa. I wanted you safe from the Lannisters. In the North, where you belong. In your home.”

     “My home was taken over by monsters, my godswood defiled by a torturer who flays commoners alive for fun, Petyr,” Sansa said, her voice cruel. She wished that it were hard as steel, so that her words could make him bleed.

     “I’m sorry. Please believe me when I say that I’m sorry, that I never wanted harm to come to you.”

 

     She was tired of his apologies, of the way his mouth looked when he was cringing with regret and pain—or the performance of pain. Either way, she had to lead him down this path she had in mind. And so far, he seemed to follow willingly, carried away with his emotions or his performance.

     Then again, this was Littlefinger. Nothing was certain with him.

     “You, begging. I think I like it, Petyr. If I tell you to beg me, right this very moment, would you?”

     “Yes, Sansa. Of course.”

      Sansa Stark toed the dirty floor of the brothel, as though she were drawing an invisible line. It was full of old muck and straw, and would soil any clothing that touched it.

     “Kneel. Right here. Get on your knees and beg my forgiveness,” she commanded. Sansa was surprised—and delighted—at the sight of Lord Petyr Baelish scrambling to get onto his knees. He was quick about it. Petyr soiled his cloak and tunic, and looked up at her with sorrow in his eyes.

     “Please, Sansa. I’ll do anything,” Petyr begged.

     Sansa could clearly see the tears in his eyes, see his remorse. “You’re barely worthy to kiss my boots,” she sneered.

     Without her needing to continue, to demand it of him, Petyr leaned forward and pressed his lips to the toe of her boot. He placed a second kiss against the supple leather, then another, before he looked back up at her.

     “I am unworthy,” Petyr admitted. “But please, Sansa. Let me try to earn your forgiveness.”

     “I never said you’d be able to earn forgiveness,” she said blankly. “But you can try. Prostrate yourself for me. Here and now, on this floor.”

     Petyr did so. He stretched forward as far as he dared, his nose just above the dried-out muck of the floor.

     Sansa stretched her foot forward, pressing her boot into his back. The heel dug into his cloak, his back, soundlessly. She delighted in watching his face press into the filth. Removing her boot after a few long moments, Sansa saw that his nose and chin were dirty when he looked back up at her. She felt a warmth, seeing him almost crawling on his belly before her.

     “Maybe I’d want to inflict some of Ramsay’s punishments on you,” Sansa suggested, tapping a finger against her chin.

     Petyr’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

     “I could choke you until you ran out of air. Until you truly, for a moment that lasts too long, think you’re going to die with my hands wrapped around your throat,” she told him. “I could rip off your trousers and carve a knife in your backside, then drip hot candlewax into the wounds. Would you like that?”

     She expected him to deny it, to dislike any part of the horrors that she’d received at Ramsay’s hands.

     “I’d like whatever made you most happy,” Petyr replied simply.

     Sansa wasn’t expecting that.

     “And if I wanted to chop off your cock like Ramsay did to Theon, and send it to—oh, that’s right. I suppose you don’t have any family to send it to. I’m the closest thing you had to anyone who cared a shred about your existence, and you threw. Me. Away.” Sansa wiped spittle off her lips, only a little embarrassed of the physical excess of her rage.

     “I never intended this, Sansa. If that’s what you want, then…fine. Chop off my cock, feed it to the pigs, or the dogs, anything. So long as you want it, it’s yours. My body is yours,” Petyr said, meeting her eyes steadily.

     That last part sent a thrill humming through her.

     “And if I want to take your body? To hurt it, to make it bleed?” Sansa tapped her chin with a finger once more, feigning indecision. 

     The Lord Protector of the Vale didn’t even pause.

     “Then I give myself up to you completely,” he said softly.

     Sansa was not prepared for that. Nor was she prepared for the sudden warmth at her navel, followed by the lightning bolt down her thighs. His subservience delighted her.

     “I’m afraid I might have to use you, and use you roughly,” Sansa told him.

 

     His expression seemed a mix of shock and expectation, like he had been waiting for this from the moment he arrived at Molestown…but that he couldn’t believe he was hearing these words from Lady Sansa Stark herself.

     “Use me,” Petyr begged.

     He was still on his knees on the dirty floor, gazing up at her. Was that worship in his eyes, or simply a calculation, a perfidy? Sansa glanced around them, and saw a low bench that looked unbroken. Walking over to it purposefully, she righted it and brushed off the straw before sitting with half-remembered grace. The chair wobbled a bit, but held. It felt powerful to look down at him like this.

     “Come here, Petyr,” she commanded. When he started to rise, Sansa tsk tsk’ed at him, shaking her head. “No, no, not like that. On your hands and knees. Now.”

     Without stopping to question it, Petyr lowered himself to his hands and knees and began to crawl towards her. He made no sounds of protest. His cloak was stained with reddish-brown dirt, and his hands and face were already filthy. She didn’t know why the thought of the immaculate Petyr Baelish, filthy with mud and refuse and who knew what else, pleased her. When he came before her, Petyr met her eyes. Sansa thought his expression looked almost hopeful.

     “You betrayed me,” Sansa reminded him. “You betrayed my trust. You’ll never be able to erase that.”

     “I know.”

     “But I can let you try to repay that debt,” she suggested, seeing his eyes light up. “Would you like that?”

     “Of course I would, Sansa,” Petyr replied.

     “Good,” Sansa said. “Your body is mine, from this day until your debt has been repaid.”

     When all Petyr did was nod, she shook her head. “No. I want you to say it, Petyr. Right now.”

     “My body is yours, for as long as you wish it,” Petyr Baelish said. There was what almost sounded like reverence in his voice. Sansa watched his Adam’s apple quiver as he swallowed heavily.

     “Swear by the gods,” Sansa insisted. “The old and the new.”

     “I swear it,” Petyr replied. “I swear, by the old gods and the new, that my body belongs to you for as long as you want it.” It was a contract that held a ring of finality. He was hers, to do with as she pleased.

     “Good,” Sansa said. She didn’t let him know just how much warmth his words provided. It traveled down her belly and gathered in her lap, tickling with possibility. “Petyr, your body is mine from now on. I will use you however I see fit.”

     “And how do you plan on—”

     “Be quiet,” she ordered, cutting him off. Now was not the time to let Petyr get in any self-satisfied remarks.

     He fell silent.

     Sansa reached down and rucked up her skirts, the warm folds pooling around her hips, her waist. Her hose gave her some protection up to her knees, but a blast of cold air from the brothel assailed her thighs and cunt.

     “You can start by giving me a proper goodbye this time,” Sansa said. “With a kiss.”

     She saw Petyr swallow thickly, saw his eyes trail up her body to meet her own. He reached out to touch her hip, his cold fingers sliding towards a mark. The scar, almost fully healed, somehow burned with his touch. Sansa knocked his hand away from the large X-shape. It was still an angry red weal, taut as it healed. A gift from one of Ramsay’s knives. As he did it, he had told her it was meant to look like the flayed man. His house. His mark.

     He fancied he was an artist with those knives.

     “Did he do this to you?” Petyr asked quietly.

     Sansa looked back down at him, saw that there was a redness in his pale cheeks, along his neck. It looked mottled, uneven. Ugly. “Yes. Ramsay did this shortly after our wedding night,” Sansa replied.

     She saw his chest begin to heave and his jaw worked heavily. Was this another act? How did one affect their pallor to mimic rage? Sansa wasn’t sure. Petyr didn’t speak. His nostrils flared, and she saw that his hands were clenched into fists.

     “He branded me like I was livestock, Petyr,” she said. “Is this what you pictured, when you sold me to the Boltons?”

     “No.” Petyr’s voice was harsh, quick in his reply. “Gods, no. I—I should’ve kept you with me. I had to return to King’s Landing. I was so focused on keeping you away from Cersei—”

     “Stop,” Sansa commanded.

     Petyr went silent immediately, but his breathing remained erratic, chest heaving.

     “Don’t say her name. Not now. Right now, you have business to attend to, before Brienne comes back.”

     If Petyr Baelish was going to get this upset over a single scar, then she couldn’t imagine how he would react when he saw the rest of them. Her back was a quilt of Ramsay’s design; she had seen it in the glass in her chambers. What would Petyr do when he realized that she was lesser, sitting before him, compared to the last time they were together? There was enough missing from her body that he was bound to notice.

     What would the Lord Baelish do when he saw the rest of her?

     “Now, Petyr,” Sansa ordered, giving him a stern glare. Gods, getting a man to eat her cunt was exhausting, but only because they put up such a fuss.

     Petyr blinked, as though to banish his dark thoughts, and placed a hand on her thigh. Sansa felt his hand sliding up her leg, her thigh, thumb rubbing lightly. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her knee, then traveled further up her body. Slowly he moved up her thigh until he parted her legs even further with a gentle hand. Petyr placed a kiss to her folds. It was polite, almost like a knock before entry.

     Quickly he spread her lips and his tongue delved between them, moving ‘round like he was attempting to apologize, even now. His tongue moved upward, licking all around her clitoris until she made a sudden noise of pleasure. Sansa felt the prickle of his beard against her thighs. She swore he smiled at the sound she made. Then he teased her with his tongue, gliding through her wetness, before a finger joined it and teased along the length of her lips.

     Sansa inhaled sharply, and her fingers grasped more tightly around the folds of her dress.

     Emboldened by the noises she made, Petyr slid his finger inside her, a cautious explorer. His finger met with no resistance; she felt herself slick and inflamed with desire. Sansa’s thighs twitched against Petyr’s cheeks, his beard.

     The only sounds in the room were coming from Sansa as she struggled to maintain her composure. It wasn’t quite like the vow she’d made in Winterfell, in Ramsay’s bed. She didn’t want Petyr to feel satisfied, to be so certain of her pleasure. Sansa also wanted to be less blatant, should Brienne hear something and come charging in. The idea of Brienne storming into the brothel, sword drawn and ready to attack, was almost arousing. Sansa pictured Petyr’s shocked expression, the blatant fear on his features, as he knelt before a woman about to cut him down.

     She felt herself get wetter.

     A second finger joined the first, moving within her. Petyr’s tongue still teased her nub. The tip of his tongue pressed down on her, pushing that part of her back and forth. It was like he was pushing her, balancing her on the edge. Feeling him in two places at once was delightful, and Sansa panted for breath. Every now and then she heard herself make small noises of pleasure.

     They almost sounded…remote. Like they were sounds that belonged to somebody else, from another time.

     His tongue continued to tease her, but its speed increased. A jolt went straight to her cunt, and Sansa moaned softly.

     “Yes,” she breathed. “Like that.”

     It was like a wave building, lapping against the shores of her thighs as they circled Petyr Baelish’s head. Sansa squeezed her thighs around him a bit, feeling them tremble uncontrollably. If anything, this encouraged Petyr, her legs like a vice, unwilling to let him part from her now. His tongue moved even faster than before.

     Sansa reached out to grip his hair with one hand, tugging lightly. She would not let Petyr move from this position. Not now.

     He had three fingers in her now, curling against the inside of her sex in a ‘come hither’ motion. She swallowed thickly, almost wanting to stop so she could get a flask of water from the horse. The thought of making him stop, of prolonging the game while he waited on her, was momentarily exciting.

     But she was far too close for something like that. There was a pressure mounting within her, her inner muscles spasming uncontrollably.

     Sansa felt something else, the tip of another finger moving against her, moving to her backside. Petyr’s finger…was it his pinky? Sansa wondered. After a moment she didn’t care, as she felt it slide into her ass. She exhaled in one loud burst, feeling his finger rub and tease her rim, moving independently of the ones inside her. Sansa panted and moaned. This is too much, she thought, gripping Petyr’s hair more tightly.

     She felt that wave of ecstasy wash over her, and the feeling held for a long moment—almost too long. Her muscles spasmed around Petyr’s fingers and her thighs shook with the enormity of it. Petyr kept licking after she came to her orgasm, bringing echoes of that immediate pleasure on its heels. Her cunt was swollen with heat, but Sansa didn’t smile down at him, or reward his dutiful attentions.

     She almost wanted to see how many times he could give this to her, before Brienne’s lumbering form returned. But Sansa knew she would have to end it soon enough.

     “Stop,” Sansa commanded, after several more minutes of Petyr’s attentions.

     He looked up at her, his grey-green eyes hopeful. He licked his lips clean of the remnants of her pleasure.

     Sansa closed her eyes, taking several long moments to recover her breath. Petyr said nothing, waiting for her to speak again.

     “That was good, Petyr,” Sansa told him, finally. She opened her eyes and glanced down at him; he was looking hopeful again, charming despite the dirt on his cloak and in his mussed hair. “You’re going to either go to Moat Cailin or send a raven,” she said next. “Tell the Knights of the Vale to ride here as quickly as possible, so they can help take back Winterfell from my monster of a husband.”

     This was not up for debate.

     “Of course, Sansa,” Petyr said. That had been his desire this whole time—to use the Knights of the Vale to help Sansa (and her brother) to secure Winterfell and the north. To secure Sansa’s loyalties once more. The latter would not happen, but Sansa knew Jon needed those troops. They both needed those troops.

     “My brother’s army will remain camped where they are until your arrival; Ramsay has little cause to leave Winterfell until we’re close enough to lay siege,” Sansa told him. “Then, he will meet us in the field. Your knights, Petyr, will be an important vanguard in this fight. Don’t disappoint me, and I’ll give you a reward.”

     Petyr’s eyes widened. He was curious, she could tell.

     “I won’t say what it is, yet,” she said. “But you’ll see…soon enough.” She enjoyed making him wait, teasing him with the possibility of a reward. If he didn’t betray her again.

     Petyr nodded his understanding. “Sansa, can I ask—”

     “No,” she said, interrupting him before he could finish. Sansa didn’t want any questions from him, not now. She flicked her hand, motioning for Petyr to move away from her. When he did, she lowered her skirts.

     “Get up and wipe yourself off before Brienne comes back. You’re going to meet me at Jon’s camp after you do as I’ve commanded. Bring me the Knights of the Vale, Petyr.”

     “I will, Sansa,” Petyr Baelish said, getting to his feet and wiping his hands on the front of his cloak. “I promise you that the Vale will help you take back Winterfell.”

 

     Unbeknownst to either of them, there was a large figure peering through a window behind them. Brienne of Tarth was not crouched in hiding, but the angle of the window was such that it made it difficult for them to notice her unless they turned to look in that direction. She watched Lady Sansa Stark pull her dress down and begin to smooth the wrinkled fabric, while Littlefinger dusted off his cloak and tunic.


	2. A Little Ring

**Chapter 2 – A Little Ring**

 

          “This is more than you deserve, you know,” Sansa told Petyr Baelish matter-of-factly.

 

          “I am well aware,” Petyr replied. He was busy trying to get the filth off the front of his cloak, but he was only partially successful.

          She’d smoothed her dress as best as she could, and was watching Petyr from the corner of her eye. When he moved, the bulge in his breeches was obvious.

          “And do something about your cock,” she added.

          “I had wanted to,” Petyr replied, looking up at her. His expression was coy, playful. Sansa knew he was pleased with himself.

          “And I didn’t. Keep that in mind, Petyr, for next time.”

          “Is there going to be a next time?” he asked.

          “I’m still making up my mind,” Sansa informed him coolly. “And the longer it takes for you to send word to Moat Cailin, the less open I am to the idea.”

         

          Sansa didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of leaving here…well, satisfied. That wasn’t the point. It was time for her to start taking what was owed to her. The knights of the Vale would be a fair start.

Winterfell and Ramsay Bolton’s throat in a noose would be even better.

          “My apologies, Sansa,” Petyr said, giving her a short bow. There was still the hint of a smile at his lips, but she didn’t comment further. “May I have a kiss, then, before I go?”

          He was treading lightly. Polite. As though Sansa’s face, her lips, were off-limits.

 

          Ramsay had liked to spare her face and most of her neck. It kept her presentable, should he fancy letting her out of her chambers. She had never imagined being caged in Winterfell, of all places. Winterfell, with its rough-hewn stone in place of the gilt finery and elaborate, expertly woven tapestries of the Red Keep.

          Sansa never thought she’d find herself preferring those expensive tapestries, preferring King’s Landing to Winterfell.

          Instead of responding to Petyr’s request out loud, Sansa tilted her head and tapped her cheek with a finger. She didn’t want him to kiss her on the lips, not right now. Thoughts of Ramsay were making her nauseous.

          Petyr accepted the conditions without complaint. He leaned forward into the air in front of her, a hand on her arm.

Sansa didn’t lower herself for him.

Some part of her was amused, watching through half-lidded eyes as Petyr craned his neck to reach her.

          He made due, and his hand rubbed her arm gently while he pressed his lips to her cheek. His mustache tickled. It was much like the kisses he had given her before, but those felt like a lifetime ago. Was he always this sentimental?

          “When I return, you’ll have some of the best knights in the realm riding to support you,” Petyr promised.

          “Until your return, then,” Sansa said. She was not interested in exchanging pleasantries or promises. Not when there was too much work yet to be done.

*

          Brienne of Tarth wore a small frown the entire ride back from Molestown.

          “I don’t trust Littlefinger,” she said to Sansa, before they reached the gates of Castle Black.

          “That’s smart of you, Lady Brienne,” Sansa replied.

          “You need to be careful around that man,” Brienne insisted. “I don’t trust anything that comes out of his mouth.”

          “You needn’t remind me of that; I spent years in court with him.” Sansa knew Petyr Baelish better than anyone. Anyone living, anyway.

          People seemed to trust Petyr. Sansa had seen it for herself in King’s Landing, even before her father was arrested and beheaded. Petyr Baelish had been the Master of Coin, the man who made old King Robert’s feasts and tourneys happen.

          How long ago that all seemed. Memories of that first tournament were almost dim to her. Sansa remembered Arya’s fidgeting, and her incessant tugging at the large bows on that fancy dress she wore. She remembered the look on Ser Hugh’s face as he died with a lance tip buried in his throat. Then there was the Mountain’s enormous form ahorse, unreadable behind his helm, yet unmoved by his opponent’s gruesome death.  

          In Winterfell, Ramsay had done his best to strip her bare. Sansa felt she was prepared for anything, after experiencing Ramsay and his knives.

          Seeing Theon—or was he Reek, then? —turn and push Myranda off the battlement…that had shocked her quite a bit. Myranda and Reek were both observers to her pain, her suffering. Reek at least cried when she was raped. He whimpered or made other pitiful noises that sounded an octave higher than the boy she once knew.

          Myranda, though…Myranda had always watched hungrily.

          Sansa saw the other woman getting wet and touching herself while Ramsay raped or cut her. While Ramsay dripped the hot beeswax from a candle onto her flesh, into her cuts. He liked to hold the candle just above her; Sansa could always feel the heat of a tiny flame before the first splashes burned in fresh wounds.

          Sometimes, Myranda would reach out and stroke Ramsay’s shoulder, his back, his cock, while he tortured Sansa. He enjoyed that.

          Myranda, when she was in Ramsay’s bed, was always hungry for more. She liked to beg for the privilege of raking the wax from Sansa’s flesh, nails digging into burnt skin and bleeding wounds.

          If he was feeling petulant, Ramsay would make Myranda get down on hands and knees and beg like a dog. Myranda seemed to like being a dog for him, but for Sansa it was embarrassing. Then disgusting. Myranda begged for the opportunity to help rape her, torture her.

          Myranda had always enjoyed participating. There were times, before her marriage, where Sansa had wondered about what it would be like, to take another woman to bed. Mostly those wonderings occurred after Lady Margaery suggested it, one sunny day in the palace gardens.

          Never like this. She had never imagined this.

          Sansa had never imagined being tied down, keeping her eyes shut but unable to shut out the cloying, pervasive voice of Ramsay Bolton as he instructed Myranda on how to insert a marble rod into her ass. He had joked about the quality of the craftsmanship, and that the Boltons could commission better toys than “mere onion-stone,” after all.

          The marble was cold—a sudden and painful presence. Sansa couldn’t help but gasp and open her eyes. Myranda’s face looked as cold as the marble, leaning over her as she inserted it.

          Even now, Sansa could hear Ramsay’s voice. His tone never wavered, that night or any other, even as he instructed Myranda to beat her with whatever object struck his fancy.

          The imprints marked her body still.

 

          “My lady?” Brienne’s voice cut through those cloudy thoughts and feelings.

          Sansa turned to look at her. The giant blonde woman was staring, and Sansa felt sure that somehow, not even her thoughts were private.

          “Yes, Brienne?”

          “Are you all right, my lady?”

          “I don’t think anyone has asked me that question in quite a long time,” Sansa replied, after giving it some thought.

          “And…?” Brienne was persistent.

          “I’ve never been all right,” Sansa told her honestly, “Not since Ser Ilyn Payne took my father’s head.” She couldn’t meet the older woman’s eyes.

         It was somehow more difficult to navigate her horse in this cold weather. She was tired, and besides, her dress and gloves kept sticking to the frigid leather of the saddle. The reins felt awkward and stiff in her cold hands. She told herself that those annoyances meant she could focus on them, not Brienne. Not the stare that Sansa felt burrowing into her side.

*

          The map of the North took up the entire table. Jon had asked her—and Brienne—to join him for a war meeting. The company looked grim, and smelled worse. Strangers, all of them, save Jon. Even Brienne she barely knew, and whose presence was impossible to ignore beside her. Jon though…Jon she knew. But he’s not the same as he was, not like when we were at Winterfell, she thought. Were any of Ned Stark’s children? Rickon was in the dungeon of their own home, probably being tortured. If not now, then later.

          Her mouth felt dry when she thought about Rickon. When she’d seen him last, he’d been tiny, dirty, and clinging to Shaggydog’s black fur. Shaggydog. Of course Ramsay would skin the youngest Stark’s direwolf. He would consider it a point of pride to have flayed a direwolf. Shaggydog had been Rickon’s steadfast companion; Sansa had the dimmest of memories of the two of them, stealing food from the kitchens. He had protected Rickon.

 _Poor Rickon_ , she thought. He’s almost a man by now, but he’ll never live to adulthood.

          Edd, a man of the Night’s Watch, entered. She heard him called the Lord Commander by some of his brothers, but he deferred to Jon. There was conflict here recently, Sansa knew, and not just in the hierarchy of the Night’s Watch. The Wildling army—loyal, according to Jon—were behind it. There were thousands of them. But if Jon were to be believed, there were greater dangers beyond the Wall. Greater dangers than men who smelled like curdled milk and wore sealskins and beaver pelts.The large one, Tormund, was invited to the meeting as well. But if he spoke for the Wildling army, then obviously he was someone they deemed worthy of respect. Wildlings valued strength and strong leaders to guide them, if Maester Luwin’s teachings had been correct. They were like the clans that lived west, in the mountains that curved along the Bay of Ice. She remembered when some of them had visited Winterfell once, maybe a year before King Robert came and tore their family apart. They were a proud people, just like the Wildlings, and if this Tormund spoke for them, proclaimed their loyalty to Jon…then it meant that Jon had done something to prove his strength and ability to lead them. All of them.

          _No man has ever brought an army of Wildlings south of the Wall_ , Sansa thought. _Not until my brother_.

          The woman in red, Melisandre, entered and sat at the far end of the table. When she did, Sansa felt Brienne stiffen beside her. A priestess, or a witch. Sansa watched her for a moment, but the red priestess met no one’s eyes. She just stared at the map vacantly. When Ser Davos arrived, it seemed that Jon had been waiting on him. As the older man took his seat, Jon began pulling flat, smooth stones out of a small pail. Sansa was surprised to see that they were painted—who had paint in a dreary place like this? Without a word, he began arranging them on the map, weighing it down and marking positions. Jon paused for a moment, thumb rubbing a smooth stone in his hand, before placing it atop the dot that marked Castle Black.

          It was a white direwolf, on a field of dark grey. Someone had painted that part of the stone; it was intentional. Jon chose to invert the Stark colors to represent him. His army.

          The tone of the room was somber, but Sansa felt a childish urge to reach out and touch the stone markers atop the map. She checked that impulse, and instead played with a hem on her sleeve. When she looked up, Jon was pulling out ones that bore the Bolton sigil. Instantly she felt a wave of disgust. She gripped the edge of the bench beside her, hoping no one would notice. Sansa forced herself to look at the stones on the far side of the map: the axe for the mountain clans, and the paw print that sat fat on the ink blot for Bear Island.

          “We can’t defend the North from the Walkers, and the South from the Boltons,” Jon began.

          Once the markers were all on the map, Sansa watched her brother step back and point at both for emphasis. He grabbed a stone at random and held it in a fist. Jon was always a bit dramatic, and stubborn. Or rather he had been, back when they were younger. He still seemed very stubborn to her. Then again, so was she. The White Walkers, for Sansa, had always been some scary story Old Nan used to love to tell. But when had her brother Jon ever been known as a liar? Even when they were children, Jon always wanted to do the right thing. He’d always made sure everyone was included—even the girls. If he said they were real, that they were an enormous threat, then Sansa believed him.

          “If we’re going to survive, we need to take Winterfell. And if we’re going to take Winterfell, we need more men,” Jon told them all.

          Tormund took a seat at the end of the table, closer to Brienne. The light from the fire made his beard look like a mass of embers.

          “Aside from the Starks, and the Boltons,” Ser Davos stated, “The most powerful houses in the North are the Umbers, the Karstarks, and the Manderly’s.” He stood and began to move clutches of stones towards the dot of Winterfell, where Ramsay’s sigil sat.

         “And the Umbers and the Karstarks have already declared for the Boltons, so we’re not doing so well there,” he added.

         Sansa’s hands, clasped on the table, tightened together at the first mention of the Umbers. “The Umbers gave Rickon to our enemies; they can hang,” she declared, looking at the markers around Winterfell. “But the Karstarks declared for Ramsay without knowing they had another choice.”

         Ser Davos met her eyes, and winced a little and tilted his head, like he had to say something unpleasant. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but they know that a Stark beheaded their father,” he said, “I don’t think we can count on them, either.”

         Sansa bit her lip; she remembered what Robb did, but she still thought Davos was wrong. He was a southerner, an outsider. “How well do you know the North, Ser Davos?” she asked.

         “Precious little, my lady,” Davos replied, resuming his seat.

         “My father always said northerners are different,” Sansa insisted. “More loyal. More suspicious of outsiders.” The last comment more pointed than the rest.

         Ser Davos didn’t meet her eyes, at least not right away; instead he gazed upon the map as he addressed her. “They may well be loyal,” he admitted, “But how many rose up against the Boltons when they betrayed your family?” His expression was heavy, accented by the lines around his eyes.

         Sansa looked back down at the map. Houses Manderly and Karstark had been silent when Roose Bolton betrayed Robb and stabbed him in the heart. He had helped the Lannisters murder their King in the North, and they had done nothing. He was right, but she didn’t want to admit it.

         “I may not know the North, but I know men,” Ser Davos continued. “They’re more or less the same in every corner of the world; even the bravest of them don’t want to see their wives and children skinned for a lost cause. Jon’s goin’ to convince them to fight alongside him, they need to believe it’s a fight they can win.”

         “There are more than three other houses in the North,” Jon pointed out. “Glover…Mormont…Cerwyn…Dustin…Hornwood. Two dozen more. Together, they equal all the others. We can start small and build.”

         Sansa saw Ser Davos and Edd nod at that. “The North remembers; they remember the Stark name—people will still risk everything for it, from White Harbor to Ramsay’s own door,” she added.

         “I don’t doubt it,” Ser Davos conceded, tilting his head at Sansa, “But Jon doesn’t have the Stark name.”

         “No, but I do,” Sansa said. Wasn’t it obvious? It was why the Boltons had wanted her so badly, after all. “Jon is every bit as much Ned Stark’s son as Ramsay is Roose Bolton’s. And there’s also the Tully’s—they’re not Northerners, but they’ll back us against the Boltons without question.”

         “I didn’t know the Tully’s still had an army,” Ser Davos said. He looked at the southern end of the map, as though the Riverlands would appear beneath The Neck and Greywater Watch.

         “My uncle the Blackfish has reformed it and retaken Riverrun,” Sansa told him. She was pleased to have this information—it was worth more than gold to this war meeting.

         Jon looked at her, almost bewildered. “How d’you know that?” he asked her.

 

         Sansa met his eyes, and hesitated. “I met with Lord Baelish, in Molestown, yesterday,” she confessed, finally.  

         “Littlefinger?” It was Ser Davos this time, looking just as surprised as Jon. “Wasn’t he the Master of Coin for King Robert? And then for Joffrey, after him? Isn’t he loyal to the Lannisters?”

         “He poisoned Joffrey,” Sansa replied, “And he rescued me from King’s Landing and the Lannisters. Lord Baelish loved my mother, and the Lannisters helped the Frey’s murder her at the Twins.” She was giving this knowledge to them, so they would trust that he wasn't beholden to the Lannisters, that his intentions were honest. Sansa also knew they could use it against him, should Petyr try and betray them.

         “Why would an old lost love compel him to ride to Molestown, just to tell ye that?” Ser Davos asked.

         “Not just,” Sansa replied. When Ser Davos frowned, saying nothing, she continued. “He wants to marry me, so he has to help murder Ramsay first.”

 

         Jon’s expression was one of instant disgust. Sansa watched him curl his hands into fists at his sides. “He’s old enough to be your father,” he said hotly.

         “But he’s not, and he’s declared for House Stark,” Sansa replied, “He pledged the knights of the Vale to help us take back Winterfell.”

         That information affected everyone in the room. Jon stared at her, mouth slightly agape, as though he couldn’t comprehend her words. The rest of them sat up straighter and gave Sansa their full attention—even the red priestess Melisandre.

         “How does Lord Baelish have control of the knights of the Vale?” Ser Davos asked, wide-eyed in disbelief.

         “He married my Aunt Lysa before her death,” Sansa explained, “And now he’s Lord Protector of the Vale and regent—at least until my cousin, Robin Arryn, comes of age.” If he lives long enough to come of age, a voice whispered in a corner of her mind. Why did that voice always sound like Petyr?

         “Lysa Arryn is dead?” Davos asked.

         “And now he wants to marry you?” Jon’s question was in unison with the older man’s, and Sansa found it rather annoying.

         Gods, this was frustrating. Where had Ser Davos been, that he hadn’t heard of her Aunt Lysa’s untimely death? Surely the seven kingdoms knew by now. Perhaps Ser Davos had been off with Stannis Baratheon somewhere, recuperating after the failed siege of King’s Landing. Only for Stannis to launch a failed campaign against the Boltons. Stannis Baratheon was dead, now. Why did Jon take either of their advice, if Ser Davos and the red priestess had served their lord so poorly?

         “Aunt Lysa went mad with jealousy and grief. She threw herself from the moon door when she found out Lord Baelish didn’t marry her out of love,” Sansa lied. It was half a lie. In the end, Lysa Arryn had been spitting with rage, threatening to murder her own kin. She’d been utterly mad.

         “And he wants to marry you for love?” Jon asked, expression doubtful.

         “I don’t need him to love me,” Sansa replied, gesturing to the clutch of stones around Winterfell. “I don’t even need to marry him. I need him to give us fighting men—and the Vale has nearly four-thousand.”

         “This little finger fucker can fight?” It was Tormund who spoke up.

         “Well…I have seen him use a dagger,” Sansa admitted. Petyr had thrown it and struck a man from a fair distance. But she doubted that he could effectively fight with a sword, in close combat. The way he called Petyr “Littlefinger” was odd, but then again, so was Tormund’s accent. It was as heavy as the goat’s milk he’d tried to give her and Lady Brienne last night.

         “Then we should let him fight for us, and you can let him try and carry you off,” Tormund said, shrugging. “You could fight him off, and others will try. You are kissed by fire, as I am.” He pointed to her hair, briefly, then his own beard. “Blessed. More will try, if he can’t win you.”

         Melisandre looked sharply at Tormund, before regarding Sansa with an unreadable expression.

         “That’s not our way,” Jon said, looking over at the Wildling. Brienne’s expression was of distaste.

         “Maybe it should be,” Tormund suggested. He shrugged. “Ours is an honest way. No lords and ladies and bargains struck like trading a goat.”

         Jon spoke up, looking thoroughly annoyed. “That’s not—”

         “Regardless, we have something positive,” Ser Davos interrupted, giving the Wildling a withering look. “The Blackfish is a legend. If he’s reformed the Tully army…and the Vale has declared for the Starks, then we might have a fighting chance against the Boltons. And northern lords will like the sound of a fighting chance.”

         Sansa watched Davos gesture at Bear Island and the Bay of Ice, then downward to Deepwood Motte.

         “These smaller houses might just be willing to back us, with the Tully’s and the Vale on our side,” he said, lightly tugging on a grey patch of beard.

         “That puts our forces near equal to theirs, and if we get the support of enough northern lords, we could outnumber the Boltons and overtake them,” Jon said. “We can take back Winterfell, and save Rickon.”

         Sansa was silent. There was no way they would save Rickon; the monster that looked like Ramsay Bolton would never let that happen.

         Jon began pushing unmarked stones from the pail towards Winterfell and the Bolton forces. “If they ride up from the south with the Tully’s, then we stand a chance,” he said.

         “You’re going to need more stones to deal with Littlefinger’s army,” Sansa remarked lightly. She pointed to the map, as though Jon had forgotten where it was.

         Jon simply looked at her, frowning. He never did have a sense of humor. 

*

          They decided to start with the northern mountain clans, and Brienne was dispatched to Riverrun…reluctantly. Stannis had apparently been able to recruit some of the mountain clans to his cause; they were all fiercely loyal, especially to the Starks. They had even visited Winterfell once, years ago. They had respected her father quite a bit, she remembered. Jon and Ser Davos discussed this often along the ride—which of the clans had sent soldiers to march with Stannis, and which had refused. One thing was certain: they had to meet with Lord Wull, the head of the most powerful clan in the region. Lord Liddle, housed in Pinesend and the second most powerful clan, would be their next target, should the Wulls decline them.

          Once they left Castle Black, days of riding and sleeping in tents stretched out in front of them. Sansa wasn’t looking forward to it, but it was necessary. They didn’t want to kill the horses, and they could only send so many ravens out at a time.

          It was nearly a week to the base of the mountains, and he was waiting for them. Lord Petyr Baelish was dressed warmly, and Sansa had to wonder how long he’d been waiting there—and how he knew where they’d be. She listened to him proclaim his loyalty to House Stark as Jon dismounted from his gelding. Even though Jon looked like he wanted to hit him, he eventually offered his arm to the older man all the same. He couldn’t afford to refuse Petyr Baelish’s help. Not now.

          Petyr took Jon’s offered arm, and an agreement was reached. Of sorts. Jon begrudgingly accepted him into their riding party with a warning about their need to make haste come morning.

*

          After a simple meal over a low fire, Sansa bid her brother and Ser Davos a good night. Petyr had retired even earlier, politely claiming fatigue. Tormund and the Wildlings who rode with them were off in the woods, finding a tree to piss on or positioned as lookouts. There weren’t enough men to be truly effective, but Sansa knew enough to tell that fewer numbers meant a greater chance of stealth. It meant traveling around the North without being tracked down by Ramsay and Bolton men.

          When she entered her tent, Petyr was there, waiting for her.

          “Forgive me, my lady,” he said softly, giving her an almost demure smile. “I wished to speak with you before you retired.”

          “How did you know where to find us?” Sansa asked immediately. She had no desire to waste time on idle chatter. Was their riding party more conspicuous than she thought? If so, Ramsay could find them. Sansa almost expected to hear his hounds baying in the forest.

          “I made an educated guess that you and your brother would want to avoid Last Hearth and Karhold,” Petyr told her. “The mountain clans have been loyal to your family for hundreds of years. They’ll back you, but you have to ask them first.”

          “And what are you doing here?” She didn’t acknowledge that he had guessed correctly; the Umbers and Karstarks were traitors and could hang, the lot of them.

          “I came here to see you,” Petyr said. “To tell you that the Vale stands behind you, and to help rally the northerners to your cause.”

          “What are you doing _here_?”

          “I couldn’t wait; I had to see you, Sansa.”

          “If you came here thinking I’m going to fuck you, you’re mistaken,” she told him. Besides, she was sore from a day of riding, and nearly-healed wounds were aching anew.

          “I came here to serve you,” Petyr insisted. When he moved closer to her, Sansa put a hand on his chest.

          “Then prove it, Petyr,” Sansa said, “And get on your knees.”

          She could see his hesitation, and the question lingering in his expression: Will she demand this of him every time?

          He got over that reluctance very quickly. Sansa watched through amused eyes as Petyr sank onto his knees. A thin layer of canvas was the only separation between his knees and the cold, hard ground, but Petyr didn’t utter a word of complaint.

          “Stay there,” she commanded.

          He obeyed.

          Without another word, Sansa began to gather her nightgown and undress for the day. She knew that Petyr’s eyes followed her movements. His silence, and the knowledge that he watched her every movement, unnerved her a little. Sansa went to the saddlebags that held her nightgown, but set it aside. The cloak was the first to go, followed by her gloves. The laces on her dress took longer, but Sansa managed. Even with her back to him, she knew he was looking at her. Waiting. When her outer dress was properly removed, she hesitated when it came time to her smallclothes. Her fingers couldn’t help their tremor, or the clumsy attempts to pull the garment over her shoulders.

          Nude now, Sansa turned towards him. Petyr Baelish’s eyes were wide, and his face was pale with more than the cold. Did he realize his mouth was half-open? She wondered.

          There were dozens of healed or still-healing cuts on her back, her ass, her thighs. Every day she felt the latticework of ridges, bumps, and scabs as they healed and knit together. She would bear these scars for the rest of her life.

          “He did this to you…” Petyr said softly, looking dazed more than anything.

          “You are responsible for every mark on me,” Sansa said coldly, gazing down at him. “What would you say if I told you I wanted to return the favor, cut for cut?”

          “I would say that I deserved it,” Petyr responded. He looked not at her eyes, but at her back, then lower. There were so many scars in the process of forming. Sansa wasn’t sure if any part of her back remained untouched by Ramsay’s knives.

          “You do deserve it, ten times over,” Sansa told him. “Isn’t that the way you do things? Pay back all of the people who've wronged you?”

          “Yes.”

          “I am going to mark you,” she said, “Make no mistake about that.”

          She thought she saw him shiver. Whether it was a shiver of fear or desire, she wasn’t sure.

          “Take off your cloak, and your doublet,” Sansa commanded.

          Petyr did so immediately. The heavy, dark material of the cloak pooled around his legs as he slid it off. Next, he plucked at the laces of his doublet—his attire almost matched hers in complexity, lace for lace.

          “Your tunic, too.”

          “Of course,” Petyr replied. His voice was soft, hushed. Compliant. Something had changed in him, seeing her naked back. The coy smile was gone, the surety. Sansa watched as he removed his doublet, then began to pull off the tunic.

          She knew that his scar was there, but this was the first time she saw it. It was bigger than she'd imagined. Long and jagged, the scarred flesh stretched at an angle from collar to navel. The skin had puckered, especially around his collarbone and shoulder. Sansa realized it was probably from a maester’s careful sewing—knitting the flesh together at the deepest part of the wound.

          It was an ugly thing.

          “Does it still hurt?” she asked.

          “My collarbone, sometimes.”

          It was strange, hearing him reveal something vulnerable like that. But she was glad he told her. It was unfortunate that he was still pained by an old wound. _Given by your uncle_ , a part of her mind whispered. _The one who agreed to duel a fifteen-year-old boy_. Coming closer, Sansa crouched slightly. She reached out and touched his scar near his collarbone, as he was still on his knees and she stood tall above him. _I like looking down at him like this_ , she thought.

          Petyr shivered at her touch.

          “I’m going to mark you, and you will thank me for it when I’m finished,” Sansa informed him.

          “I will,” he promised.

          “Then close your eyes. Don’t move.” He was leaning backwards slightly, at the perfect angle for what she wanted.

          Petyr did as she commanded. For a moment Sansa just watched him—watched his chest rise and fall steadily, the way the grey at his temples shone in the candlelight. She retrieved a candle from the travel desk, along with another item that she kept hidden in a closed fist.

          Sansa checked the temperature of the candlewax by dripping it from a safe distance onto her wrist. Ramsay had never done this for her, never cared that the wax was too hot.

Petyr was luckier than he knew.

          The first drop of wax made his eyes fly open. It splashed messily on his chest. He looked down, but said nothing. Sansa remained standing above him, holding the candle high enough so that the burning sensation on his skin would be mild. She tilted it this way and that, watching the fat splashes along his chest, his navel.

          “Do you like this?” Sansa asked. She watched the corners of his mouth twitch in surprise—or was it pain? Or pleasure, maybe? —and the way he kept his palms pressed to the sides of his thighs.

          The cold ground had to be affecting him, too.

          “It’s—” Petyr gasped, jumping slightly. Some of the wax had splattered onto his scar, near the sternum.

          Sansa slapped him. It was gentler than the last time she’d slapped him, but Petyr still looked dazed afterward.

          “I said ‘don’t move’,” Sansa said sternly.

          “I’m sorry,” he apologized.

          She said nothing in response. Petyr moved back to where he was, and Sansa resumed her game of tilting the burning candle above him. There was something fascinating about it, letting the melted wax stream from the burning wick, to splatter onto his pale chest. Sansa continued this way for some time, enjoying the patterns that the dripping wax formed on his skin.

          She was almost surprised at her joy.

          Petyr stayed still and let her do what she wanted for many long minutes. When she dripped some of the wax onto his nipple, he hissed. Whether it was in pain or pleasure, she didn’t know. Sansa reached out with a gentle hand, and pressed the top of the signet ring into the still-warm wax at the center of his chest. Petyr watched her do it, and when she was done, he looked up at her with a curious expression.

          She didn’t have to explain herself to him. Even looking down at the image, seeing it reversed, Petyr would recognize it. It was the direwolf of House Stark, albeit a bit sloppy-looking, pressed into the cooling wax. It marked him as hers, but it also declared her complicit in…whatever this was.

          “You’re mine,” Sansa said. She liked the deceptive simplicity of it.

          Petyr nodded. The corners of his mouth turned upward.

          “Say it.”

          “I am yours,” Petyr told her, his expression open and honest.

          He sounded sincere. Or did she just want that to be the case?

          Leaning forward, Sansa began to gently rake the wax from his chest with her nails. She went slowly. He had goosebumps, but the erection pushing against his breeches was evidence it wasn’t just from the cold.

          “Stay still,” Sansa said again. Her nails moved lower, until they reached his nipple, stiff with white wax. She pinched it, twisted it gently, and enjoyed hearing his breath hitch. His hands curled into powerless fists.

          “Good,” she told him.

          Petyr’s eyes were half-closed with pleasure. Who knew that a few tweaks to his nipple, and he would be as compliant as a lapdog? _Did he do this to his whores in King’s Landing?_ Sansa wondered. She pulled at his nipple again, then moved to the other. His breathing was harsher now, uneven. Sansa was still nude, and she felt goosebumps along her arms, her back. Her own nipples were stiff. She felt herself getting wet as Petyr let her scrape at his flesh, the wax works on him.

          “Do you like this?” Sansa asked again, some time later.

          “Yes,” Petyr said. “It’s different, but…”

          “But still pleasant?”

          He nodded.

          Soon she’d raked most of the wax off, save the direwolf seal in the middle of his chest. Her nails began to pluck at the sigil almost regretfully.

          “Ouch,” Petyr said suddenly, looking down at her hand on him. “Sansa.”

          “What is it?” she asked.

          “It’s caught in my hair.” He winced a little.

          He was right. The seal—and the wax around it—was lodged in the patch of black and grey chest hair. She would need a knife to remove it, probably. Sansa…hadn’t anticipated this. But then again, this was her first time to hold the candle, to control the wax and where it fell.

          “Leave it,” Petyr said suddenly. Either he anticipated more pain and wanted to avoid it, or he liked this mark of hers on him.

          _Maybe a bit of both_ , she thought. Sansa moved back a pace, taking in the picture before her. Petyr was flushed with pleasure and arousal; the front of his breeches formed a tent from his erection.

          “Get up and take out your cock,” Sansa said. She wanted to see it, but that was all. She didn’t want to touch it, or have him inside her. Not right now.

          Petyr did as he was told. His fingers fumbled with the laces, and she saw him free his stiff, fat cock. It was fatter than Ramsay’s. He took it in his hand, thumb rubbing the head almost idly.

          “I want to see you get yourself off, Petyr. Will you do that for me?”

          “Gladly,” he replied, looking up at her.

          He smiled—god, she hated that smile right now—and began to touch himself. Sansa found herself wanting to sit on the camp bed, fingers touching her wet cunt. But she didn’t.

          Instead she watched him stroke the full length of his cock, slowly, never taking his eyes from her. It almost quivered while he stroked it, and Sansa felt a jolt of lightning down her thighs.

          Gods damn him.

          His thumb circled the head of his cock, pink and flushed in comparison to his pale hips, his thighs. Sansa saw his thumb press against his slit. Petyr’s strokes became faster, his breath harsher.

          She enjoyed seeing his cheeks flush and his neck, his chest, turn a mottled red. The asymmetrical patch of wax and the direwolf remained unchanged in the candlelight.

          He stroked himself for some time, until Sansa saw him come through his fingers. His seed dribbled onto his breeches and the floor of the tent. Petyr made almost no noise. His breathing had been harsh, but his noises and groans were quiet, stifled. He watched her, expression open, yet Petyr Baelish still held a part of himself back, and Sansa knew it.

          “Did you enjoy that?” Sansa asked.

          “Every moment. Thank you, Sansa,” he said, still a bit winded. He thanked her for this, just as she’d said he would. It was nice, being right.

          “It’s more than you deserve, you know,” she told him.

          He nodded. “I’m grateful that you let me stay.”

          “Do you expect to stay the night?” Sansa asked, raising an eyebrow. “My brother would kill you if he found you here.”

          “Then he won’t find me,” Petyr promised.

          “I haven’t consented to let you stay,” she said. Truthfully, the thought of another person touching her, unrecognizable in the dark of night, was horrible. The thought sent tendrils of fear down to the base of her spine. She would likely have nightmares already, without that additional concern. Nightmares about Ramsay coming for her, his hounds baying in the distance.

          “Of course, Sansa,” Petyr said, nodding. “May I stay with you, tonight?”

          “If you do, it won’t be in my bed.”

          Sansa wasn’t looking at Petyr as she said it; instead she looked at the pile of furs on her camp bed in calculation.

          “Then where—?”

          “On the floor,” Sansa said decisively, cutting him off. She began to pull a bundle of furs off the bed. This would make a pallet of sorts for him.

          “Like a dog?”

          Turning, she saw Petyr’s lips were pursed together in distaste. It was obvious he didn’t like the idea; he’d probably imagined a much different scenario.

          “Like a man who isn’t married to me,” Sansa remarked coldly. “Besides, if I wake up and feel someone touching me, I may scream.”

          That was something out of her control.

          Petyr’s expression softened at that, and he stepped forward, reaching out with a hand as if to touch her. To reassure her.

          “Don’t touch me,” Sansa told him icily. 

          He stopped.

          “Clean yourself off, then sleep on the floor. Or leave. It’s your choice, Lord Baelish,” she said. As her tone became more clipped, formal, so too did her way of addressing him. It was a warning.

          “My apologies, Sansa.” Petyr looked like he was sorry, but he was also very good at acting. While she began to pull on her nightgown, she saw him begin to wipe himself off. He tucked his now-soft cock back into his breeches. “May I stay, tonight?”

          “If you do as I said, you may,” Sansa replied.

          In answer, Petyr moved to collect his tunic, before rearranging the pile of furs on the ground. He was attempting to make himself comfortable, she saw. When she blew out the candles, it took a moment to find her bed. That moment of uncertainty, of darkness, made her pause. Sansa slipped into her bed and pulled the furs around her body. After she settled, Sansa continued to hear shifting, the whisper of fur on cloth and skin.

          “Sleep well, Sansa.” The voice came, hushed, through the darkness.

          How would she go to sleep, hearing him in the tent with her? Just hearing his breathing made her heart pound.

          No. He’s not Ramsay, she told herself. He’ll obey her rules, or else she really would scream, should he touch her. Sometimes her nightmares made her cry out all on their own. Lady Brienne had awoken her several times on the road to Castle Black, citing concern over the terrible noises she’d been making in the worst of her nightmares.

          “Goodnight, Petyr.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really had to include the scene with that first war meeting at Castle Black. Strategy-wise, Sansa's lie to Jon makes zero sense, especially when she continues to remind him that they need more men. From a visual or cinematic perspective, the Vale swooping in to save the day in the Battle of the Bastards is a dramatic reveal--a spectacle. From a narrative standpoint, it's cartoonish and feels more like a means to an end than anything else. I'll save my rant on that for another day. 
> 
> As always, please engage in wax play and similarly intense kink fun safely. Safety and consent aren't optional. Anyway, thanks for reading.


	3. Wolves on the Move

When Sansa awoke at first light, she was under a mountain of furs and Petyr Baelish was gone. There were so many furs on top of her that it was hard to sit up. Dressing in the damp tent in near-darkness was unpleasant, to say the least. By the time Sansa pulled the boots onto her feet, her toes were numb. At least she was wearing new clothes. Her old dress had become shredded beyond repair after her escape with Theon.  _Where was Theon now?_ She wondered. He’d probably returned to the Iron Islands by now. Was he ever really going to be Theon ever again, with that kernel of Reek sitting heavy inside of him?

          By the time Sansa emerged from her tent, she saw that the others were packing up the campsite. Tormund and another wildling were dispersing the ashes of a long-dead fire, before piling on snow to cover what was left. They seemed experts at removing signs of recent occupation from the area. Hopefully no one would come sniffing for their trail.

          “Good mornin’ to you, Lady Sansa.” It was Ser Davos, looking more well-rested than was possible for the early hour.

          “Ser Davos.” Sansa inclined her head in his direction. Before Ser Davos could say anything else, there was a sudden laugh behind her.

          “Here comes that pretty southerner,” Tormund said loudly.

          Startled, Sansa turned to look at the redheaded wildling. He wasn’t looking at her—wasn’t talking about her. She breathed a sigh of relief. Then she saw who he was referring to—it was Petyr. He had emerged from his own tent, and straightened his cloak as he approached. His face was impossible to read, but Sansa imagined this was definitely a form of unwanted attention, for him.

          “He’s almost as pretty as you, Snow, and he sleeps twice as long.”

          Jon looked thoroughly annoyed, but said nothing. _It’s his way_ , Sansa thought. Almost always off somewhere, brooding, envious of the privileges that came with the Stark name. Hardly ever smiling. He didn’t really smile at all, now. Not that she’d seen. And he had scars on his face. Sansa watched him give the still-grinning Tormund a stern look, before he returned to his work.

          “Lady Sansa, are you hungry?” Ser Davos asked. He looked like he was determined to ignore the crudeness of wildlings at this hour.

          When she nodded, Ser Davos reached into nearby saddlebags and pulled out a small, rectangular bundle of cloth. When he handed it to her, Sansa felt the solid weight of it in her hands. It was a chunk of pale white cheese, and a short loaf of bread from the Castle Black kitchens. She could tell because one of them usually baked a layer of ashes into the bottom. _Not known for their food, indeed_ , she thought.

          “You’d best eat before we get back on the trails. I’ve never been one to stomach breaking my fast on horseback,” Ser Davos told her. “Lord Baelish, you’re welcome to share our provisions.”

          Petyr came to stand before the two of them, and he didn’t respond to Tormund’s teasing. _He will remember that, though,_ Sansa thought.

          “Most kind of you, Ser Davos,” Petyr answered, flashing the older man a grateful smile. “I would be much obliged.”

          While Ser Davos rummaged around for another ration of food, Petyr turned to her. “Good morning to you, my lady. Did you sleep well?”

          “I did,” Sansa replied, nodding.

          “That’s good to hear. I believe we have a long day of riding ahead of us,” Petyr told her.

          She didn’t reply right away. Instead, Sansa watched as Petyr idly rubbed his fingers over his cloak. He rubbed near the center of his chest, where the direwolf seal presumably still sat. Only Sansa knew of its existence. She felt like he was performing for her with this single, tiny movement. Petyr was performing for her alone, silently telling her that the direwolf was still there. It was too early to feel that telltale warmth behind her navel, traveling lower. Was Petyr trying to start something he couldn’t finish?  

          “Did you sleep well, Lord Baelish?” Sansa asked politely. From the way that she saw him stretching and rubbing at the back of his neck, she could guess that he hadn’t.

          “Marvelously,” Petyr told her with a wink.

          Jon was watching them out of the corner of his eye, Sansa realized. She couldn’t quite see his expression from this angle, but she doubted it was pleasant. _It’s not like he can refuse Petyr’s help_ , Sansa thought. _But he’ll never really understand Petyr, or accept him. He has too much of father’s honor in him_.

          Sansa began breaking apart the hard little loaf of bread with stiff fingers. Her dedicated chewing meant that she couldn’t answer any sly questions from Petyr. It also reduced the risk of him saying something that would drive Jon to hit him, agreement or no. Sansa watched Petyr massage the center of his chest again, although Davos didn’t notice. _He’s being quite obvious about it,_ Sansa thought. _Or maybe it bothered him, and that waxen direwolf was pulling at sensitive hair and skin?_ It could be either. But if he was doing this to tease her…he would regret it.

          “Have you ever visited the mountain clans, my lady?” Ser Davos asked.

          “I haven’t, no,” Sansa conceded, swallowing a lump of bread. “But Lord Wull, the Liddles, and the Norreys—all the biggest clans—they’ve visited Winterfell before. There are over forty clans, but the leaders of the biggest ones all made the trip. They held great respect for my father.”

          “I don’t doubt it, my lady,” Ser Davos said with a nod. “I never met him myself, but my Lord Stannis held Lord Eddard Stark in high regard.”

          And yet it was Stannis Baratheon her father had written to, when they were all in King’s Landing together. Stannis Baratheon who murdered his brother with the red woman’s blood magic, according to Brienne. But why would she lie? If Lady Brienne saw it, said that her own mother Catelyn had seen it, then how could Sansa not believe her?

          _And look how far Stannis Baratheon got with his red god_ , Sansa thought bitterly. _He died, alone, in the mud and snow of the North._

 

*

 

          Once the horses were readied, they were off. It wasn’t long before the foothills sloped upwards, and the trees turned into huge grey-green sentinels, spruce, and fir pines. The paths dwindled down to little more than goat trails. In some areas, the horses were nearly too large. Sansa kept looking at the mountains ahead of them. Their jagged peaks were crowned with snow, dominating the group’s view with a bleak kind of brilliance. Eventually, the foothills became steep with ravines and creeks, and the paths got even narrower. They had to dismount and walk for a time, but she didn’t mind.

          What she did mind, however, was that people kept trying to talk to her. Mostly Petyr, but Ser Davos as well. How could she explain to them that she wanted the quiet, wanted to hear the burble of the creek down the hill? That she wanted to be on alert for horses that weren’t theirs, for the rasping of mail on leather? For the trailing cry of hounds on a scent?  

          “What was that?” Sansa asked, holding up a finger to Petyr behind her. They were walking the horses through a particularly narrow stretch of trail, barely big enough for a horse and its rider abreast.

          The party stopped. Sansa strained to hear over the horses and rustling of movement from their riders, grabbing weapons. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest.

          There. Sansa heard it again.

          “It’s just a bird, my lady,” Petyr said. A bird’s call... They had heard birds all through the morning, but Sansa realized what was so strange about it—there were no other bird songs at all. Just this one call—once, twice—then silence.

          “No, it’s not.” Tormund spoke up from behind them, towards the rear. “It’s a call.”

          Sansa turned to look at Tormund. His eyes were closed as he strained to hear. When he opened them, he looked right at her.

          “We’re not alone,” he said quietly, grabbing a knife from his belt.

          There were no more calls. Sansa looked around, trying to see something through the line of trees and brush.

          It was a wolf.

          She saw it first. Stepping onto the ridge ahead of them, it had dark fur with a white underbelly, and didn’t move a muscle. It was eerily still. Jon saw it next, and he pointed her out—why did she think it was female? —to the rest of them.

          “Quiet. Don’t make any sudden movements,” Jon cautioned them. “Keep your horse’s reigns tight.” The horses hadn’t caught her scent yet; their group was upwind.

          Sansa watched as the wolf looked at them for another long moment, before she turned, disappearing back into the trees. The wolf was gone as quickly as it came. When she turned to look behind her, Sansa saw that the wildlings looked concerned, and Petyr Baelish’s face was white. “Have you ever seen a wolf, Lord Baelish?” Sansa asked him quietly.

          “No, my lady,” he replied, voice soft.

          She thought not. Perhaps it was odd, her lack of fear. Jon was also quite calm; she saw him listening intently, trying to hear if it was returning. This wolf looked near to Lady’s size, when the direwolf had been barely more than a pup. But thoughts of Lady always made Sansa sad, even bitter. It was a cold, hard lump that she had to force down, or else it would overtake her. Then everyone would hear her grief in her voice. Tormund and the rest of the wildlings drew their weapons. Jon drew his sword, and Sansa felt a twinge of anger that she wasn’t given anything, even though she hardly knew how to use a blade to begin with.

          She heard no sounds, nothing to announce their arrival. Several men appeared almost on top of them. They wore clothes with animal pelts, boiled leather, or a mixture of the two. Some rode what looked like shaggy-haired ponies, but larger. One of the men pointed at them and said, “State your names and your purpose.”

          “This is Jon Snow, son of Ned Stark of Winterfell,” Ser Davos replied, “And this is Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. We’re traveling to meet with the clan leaders. We sent a raven.”

          “Aye, Lord Wull received your raven and is expectin’ you,” said the same man. He gestured at the path in front of them. “We’ll lead ye the rest of the way. Lord Wull closes the gates at dusk.”

 

*

 

          Sansa didn’t know what she was expecting. The mountain clans would hardly have huge stone castles, up here in the mountains, but she had expected something less…unimpressive. The keep looked more akin to a wooden fort, erected in haste by an army that didn’t plan to stay after the fighting was over. The keep was large, however; nestled with its back against the mountains and looking down on a stream, it was a good defensive position. But why anyone would want to spend winter in the mountains, Sansa couldn’t fathom.

          And winter was nearly here.

          When they arrived at the keep, the smells of a large dwelling—full of people—filled her nose. Cooking smells, the sour aroma of sweat, hay, and horse manure assaulted Sansa’s nose all at once. _The smells of a lot of people living together_ , she thought. The clamor of livestock and people talking, yelling, after the quiet of the trail, was disconcerting—if only for a moment.  _It almost sounds like Winterfell used to, when we were all together_ , she thought sadly. Like people living together peacefully. Well, for the most part. Sansa saw two men arguing next to a large, circular tent. It didn’t look serious, however; onlookers had smiles on their faces, some shaking their heads and chuckling. How odd.

          There were a number of these tents throughout the main yard. Some had cooking pots outside, some had women sewing, peeling and prepping vegetables, or otherwise scolding children. There were quite a few children running around, clad in little more than bundles of furs and pleated wool. Sansa had forgotten what it sounded like, children at play. There had been no children at Winterfell under the Boltons, and Robin Arryn was likelier to throw a tantrum. She’d missed those sounds. They reminded her of Arya, Bran, and Rickon getting into trouble. Then Robb and Theon getting into even more trouble, and Jon taking the blame. Even if they were able to retake Winterfell, there would be no sounds of children, she realized.

          Not for a long time.

          They were led into the large hall, filled with long wooden tables and warmed by a massive hearth. There was an equally-massive man standing in front of it, putting a knife to a whetstone. A man from the raiding party called out to Lord Hugo Wull, stating that theirs was the group he was expecting.

          When he turned to greet them, Sansa smiled in recognition; Lord Wull had met the Stark family in Winterfell, all those years ago. A lifetime ago. He’d ridden with the heads of the other mountain clans, bringing gifts and petitions for their liege lord. The clansmen hadn’t brought any of their children with them, which had disappointed her at the time.

          With a mess of blond hair and whiskers, although balding and peppered throughout with grey, Lord Hugo Wull looked much like he did during the clans’ visit to Winterfell. His belly still spilled over his belt, so much so it poked at the hilt of his sword, splaying sword and sheath at an odd angle, like it would come tumbling out.

          “Lord Wull, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Sansa said, giving him a small curtsy and a wide smile. “Do you remember me?”

          “I’d remember you even if you didn’t send a raven, Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” Lord Wull said. His voice was deep, and it carried throughout the hall easily. Sansa saw some men turn to look at her.

          She hoped her face wasn’t turning red. Jon moved closer and put a hand on her shoulder, entirely too protective. Sansa was even more embarrassed.

          “And this is The Ned’s bastard, Jon Snow,” Lord Wull said. When Sansa heard others refer to her brother as a bastard—even though that’s what he was—they always said it mockingly. Lord Wull did not. He was grinning in a good-natured way, and when he came forward he clapped a hand against Jon’s back.

          “It is good to see you. Both of you. I’m sorry for what happened to The Ned. He was a true friend of the clans.”

          Sansa replied, “Thank you, my lord.”

          “You mentioned that you received our raven,” Jon began, “Lord Wull, you know why we’re here. We need to retake Winterfell from the Boltons. We—”

          “Aye, you said in the scroll,” Lord Wull interrupted. “If half of what you said he did is true, Roose Bolton’s bastard will hang for it.” He banged on the nearest table with a huge fist; the noise was sudden, and Sansa jumped despite looking at him while he did it. This was a man who was strong, even if he did have a belly that reminded her of old King Robert’s.

          “I knew the Bastard of Bolton was up to no good, even when he retook Winterfell and Moat Cailin from the Ironborn,” Lord Wull continued. “Offerin’ gold for wolfskins and for rumors of dead men in the forests.”

          “He’s not a bastard anymore,” Sansa pointed out, “Ramsay was legitimized by King Tommen, at Lord Bolton's request. And then Ramsay murdered him.”

          “He’ll always be a bastard,” the old lord said firmly.

          Sansa looked over at Jon.

          “They’re more than rumors, Lord Wull,” Jon said solemnly. “The dead no longer rest, and the Long Night is coming.”

          “You don’t need to lecture me about winter," Lord Wull replied hotly, “yer still a lad of summer, for all I’ve heard about you, Jon Snow. I’ve seen children born into darkness, then die young without ever getting a chance to see the dawn. Our elderly go off hunting in winter, because food is too scarce and there are children and grandchildren to feed. They don’t usually return.”

          “Lord Wull, forgive me,” Sansa spoke up. “My brother isn’t attempting to be poetic—the dead are rising with the cold winds. He fought them beyond the Wall.”

          There was a silence in the hall that lasted a beat too long.

          “Is this true?” Lord Wull’s brows were furrowed, and he kept his gaze on Jon.

          With a nod, Jon said, “It’s true. I fought them at Hardhome, and I lost. Thousands of refugees I couldn’t save. And every one of our fallen got right back up to try ‘n hack us to pieces.”

          Sansa shivered; Jon’s words held a ring of certainty, of doom. It sounded just like the stories Old Nan used to tell, the ones Robb and Bran always wanted to hear. “If we are to survive this winter,” she spoke up, “Winterfell must be reclaimed from the Boltons, so we can defend ourselves from the greater enemy.”

          Lord Wull looked from Jon to Sansa, then back again. “Aye. Death is the greater enemy, and I believe ye both. Children of The Ned wouldn’t lie about a threat like this’n. We’ve heard all kinds of rumors, even in these mountains. And the wildlings that used to raid our villages have all gone.”

          “That’s because they died,” Tormund said bluntly.  

          Lord Wull shot a look at Tormund, before he began to tug at the ends of his wild beard. “I’d heard you let the wildlings south of the Wall, Jon Snow. It’s never been done before. Those right ‘n proper lords are calling for your head for doin’ that.”

          Tormund stepped forward and spat on the floor. His eyes shone with anger beneath those red brows. “Those kneelers don’t know what’s waiting for us all out there,” he said, his voice hostile. “They’ll be too busy taking fancy, lordly shits to prepare for the Night’s King and his army.”

          Instead of taking offence at the outburst, Lord Wull cracked a grin. “You found this one north of the Wall? He’ll be good to have in a fight, him. D’ye speak for the wildlings that came south, then?” This last part was directed at Tormund.

          “They chose me to speak for them, and they chose Jon Snow to lead them through the Long Night.”

          There was an immediate shift in the atmosphere before the hearth. Sansa noticed that both Petyr and Lord Wull were looking at Jon, as though studying him. _They’re asking themselves why the wildlings—a people so tough that they’re used in stories to scare our children—chose Jon Snow as their leader_ , she realized. Jon was a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and the youngest in history, barely through the threshold of manhood.  _But he fought the Others, and he survived_ , Sansa thought. _Jon said lots of people didn’t. That’s something._

          “We have four-hundred garrisoned here,” Lord Wull said. “The rest of the clans have fewer men in their keeps. I will raise my banners, and the rest of the clans will follow. We will sew our banners to yours, Snow. Then we’ll drive this Bastard of Bolton out of your home and onto a fresh spear.”

          Tormund was the only one who laughed.

          _If only_. Sansa was amused, to think of Ramsay struggling on a spear, but she kept a smile off her face.

          “The wildlings have never been friends of the mountain clans,” Lord Wull mused. “They used to raid our villages, and plenty here remember that.”  

          “We don’t all need to be friends with each other,” Jon pointed out. “We have a common enemy, and we have to work together to survive.”

          “Aye,” Lord Wull replied. “That’s a fair start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugo 'Big Bucket' Wull is an asoiaf character that, to my knowledge, hasn't been mentioned, let alone introduced. He has a few good quotes in the fifth book, as one of Stannis' commanders. As book-Stannis-the-Mannis hasn't yet reached Winterfell, who knows what will happen. As there are a few Wulls, I'm going to pretend that a son or kinsman went with show-Stannis. And his reference to Ned Stark as "The Ned" is canon, and how the clans refer to Ned. The northern lords don't seem to have nearly as much of a problem with the clans, compared to the Kingdom of the Vale. Fun fact: Theo Wull, a kinsman, fought alongside Ned Stark at the Tower of Joy, and died there. The show omitted it, but I'm keeping that.


	4. Held Together by a Single Thread

 

 

They talked for a while longer, making plans. Lord Wull agreed to call the rest of the clans together and, under him, they would march with Jon’s army to Winterfell. He also agreed to escort them to the bay, and provide transport to Bear Island. They paused to eat and drink, before Sansa excused herself, feigning weariness. She’d wanted to visit their godswood before retiring, but the guards had shut the gates. They told her no one left the keep past dusk for safety reasons. The sun had set long ago. While she could see the logic behind it, Sansa was still frustrated.

          Asking for directions, it took little time to find the tent that would serve as hers for the night. In the morning, they’d ride out again. The bruises that once covered her body had faded, but the aches in her muscles were given new life by the day’s ride. She looked forward to getting a decent sleep. When she lifted the tent flap and entered, Sansa was glad to see her saddlebags there. Candles had also been lit. She set about pulling out some sewing she needed to finish before bed.

          Only a few moments later, the tent flap moved, and someone entered.

          It was Petyr Baelish. She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

          “My lady, I—”

          “What are you doing here?” Sansa demanded. She kept her voice down so as not to be overheard. Surely he wasn’t serious… Coming to her tent here, now, was a huge risk. “If Jon catches you in here, he’ll punch you in the face.”

          “Then he won’t catch me,” Petyr replied, smug.

          “That’s not an answer.”

          “I came to discuss the meeting, and—"

          “Lord Baelish,” Sansa interrupted.

          “Petyr,” he said, as if to remind her, “There’s no need for such formality when we’re alone.”

          Sansa glanced around the tent. The lit candles didn’t reveal any shadows outside, comically pressing an ear to the rough hide and canvas. But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t listening in.

          “You don’t know that,” Sansa said firmly, “and you don’t really want to know what I think of the meeting, or of Lord Wull and the clans.”

          Petyr raised an eyebrow, but let her continue.

          “You want me,” she said.  _More of me_ , a voice in the back of her mind whispered. She thought of the scars on her back, and couldn’t hold back the shudder as Ramsay came to her mind. She heard his voice again, telling her just how _happy_ she made him.

          “Sansa, what is it?”

          Petyr reached out, as if to lay a hand on her arm, but she pulled away. Hurt crossed his features, and he took a step back. Sansa could still smell the mint in the empty air where his breath had been.

          “I don’t like the risk you took by coming here, and I feel…exposed,” she admitted. The hour grew late, but there were still noises from people around them—guards, mostly, but there were some vocal and drunk men carousing in the mead hall. Tormund and the wildlings didn’t seem like men to pass up an ale offered by their hosts.

          “I’ve been feeling odd, ever since we entered the mountains. And right now, I’m thinking about Ramsay, and I don’t want _anyone_ to touch me when that happens.” Sansa plucked at the laces on her sleeves, preferring not to look at him when she said it. She could feel her face getting red with embarrassment.

          “I’m sorry for upsetting you,” Petyr said, “I merely wanted the opportunity to speak in private. That’s all.”

          “That’s all?” Sansa asked, shooting him a look. She didn’t believe him. Not one bit.

          “If that’s all you want from me, so be it,” he replied, “I have more than that to give, but only if you want it.”

          “And if I don’t want it?” she asked. “This night, or the next night, or the next? Or any of the nights to come? You would accept it?”

          Petyr hesitated, his grey-green eyes searching hers before replying, “Yes, Sansa, of course.”

          She was skeptical, but didn’t press it.

          “When I was held hostage in Winterfell, I was locked in my chambers all day,” she told him, “and then at night, _he_ would come for me. It didn’t matter what I wanted, Petyr.”

          He winced.

          “My lord husband would come regardless of what I wanted,” she continued. “So, when you came to my tent again, tonight, I thought of Ramsay. Whenever I think of Ramsay, I feel ill. Do you understand?”

          Petyr nodded, and said, “I do.”

          “Do you really?”

          “Yes,” he replied, voice insistent. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I know what happened to you wasn’t so long ago, but I never want to make you feel that way. Not ever.”

          He looked apologetic. _But that could be a lie, too_ , a voice in her mind whispered. _He is so good at looking sincere_. _He looked sincere right up until the moment he pushed Aunt Lysa through the moon door_. 

          “Give me a few moments, then,” Sansa requested. She knew he wouldn’t refuse her this.

          “Of course, anything.”

          She took a few deep breaths, trying to banish those memories from her mind. Minutes passed, but Petyr stood by, and he didn’t try to fill the silence of the tent with empty words. His patience was reassuring. The noises outside, of people settling in for the night, were reassuring too in their own way. When she looked up again, and their eyes met, Petyr smiled.

          _He always finds a way to ruin the moment_ , she thought.

          “Sometimes…I can’t stand to look at you,” Sansa told him honestly. “I feel so betrayed and hurt, and it makes me want to _hurt_ you, like I’ve been hurt—”

          “I deserve it,” he interrupted.

          “Let me _finish_.” She gave him a stern look. He fell silent, waiting for her to continue.

          “Sometimes…I don’t hate you, Petyr. Sometimes, it’s quite the opposite. Then I don’t want to hurt you, not at all…I feel—I feel like I’m out of my mind,” Sansa confessed.

          “I understand those feelings quite well.”

          “Do you?”

          “Yes. And if you want to take those feelings out on me, do it,” Petyr said. He walked closer and held out his hand.

          She paused briefly, before giving him her hand. He held it gently, and brushed his lips against her knuckles. Petyr’s mustache tickled. When he looked back up at her, his expression was serious. Those grey-green eyes were so serious.

          “I gave my word to you back in Molestown. If this is what you want, I give it willingly. But afterwards…may I stay?”

          “And fuck me?” Sansa asked, incredulous. She felt a coil of anger rising in the center of her chest. _His word means nothing to me, but still_. _How dare he_.

          “No, no…I meant only that I be allowed to stay here, in your tent,” Petyr replied.

          “You can’t be seen slinking out of my tent at dawn, Petyr. You’re smarter than that. If anyone sees you, _anyone_ , they’ll be sure to tell Jon, and he’ll ring your head like a bell. Then you’ll have made an even bigger mess of things,” she predicted.

          Petyr shook his head and said, “I only sleep for a few hours. I’ll leave well before dawn. You have my word.”

          She took a moment to think it over.

          “Are you willing to beg me for the right to stay?” Sansa asked.

          “I am.”

          “Then do it,” she commanded.

          Petyr sank to his knees. The material of his cloak slithered soundlessly around him, pooling around his legs. He looked up at her for a long moment, touching the center of his chest—where the direwolf seal sat, she assumed—before his expression grew softer.

          “Please, Sansa. May I stay?”

          She didn’t reply right away. Instead, Sansa stepped back and looked down at him, her expression cold. His words brought on a barely-suppressed shiver. _He looks so handsome like this_ , she thought. _Begging on his knees_. _I like it_. Tendrils of warmth slid down her thighs.

          Keeping him in suspense for a while longer, Sansa circled Petyr’s kneeling form, inspecting him as though she were still making up her mind.

          “I suppose,” she said, finally, “you can stay…but we cannot do this every single night—it’s too great a risk.”  

          Behind him now, Sansa reached out to clamp a hand to the back of his neck. She felt Petyr’s instincts take hold as he jumped under her touch. Her nails dug into the flesh, gripping his neck tightly for a moment, before relaxing.

          “If you _ever_ tell anyone about this, Petyr, _anyone at all_ , and I will make sure that you regret it,” Sansa promised.

She felt him shiver beneath her grip.

          “I will never say a word,” Petyr said, “Sansa, who would I possibly tell? Why would I do such a thing, when your happiness is all that I want?”

          “All?” Sansa didn’t believe him.

          “In this moment, yes,” he replied, “Whenever I’m near you, yes.”

          She let go of Petyr’s neck and circled him once more. His expression was open and eager. She noticed his hands were clasped together in front of him, as though in supplication.

          “I’d like to see what you look like with your arms behind your back,” she admitted, finally.

          “Sansa?”

          “I’ve had this picture in my mind all day, Petyr. You, on your knees, with your arms tied behind your back. Will you let me bind your arms, restrain you?”

          Petyr’s eyes widened. Sansa could almost see his thoughts racing. He was asking himself how she knew of things reserved for the back rooms of his brothels, how she came to desire such things—and he was momentarily speechless.

          “Not with anything strong, Petyr. I want to tie your arms with a bit of thread, and see how you look. If you don’t like it, surely you can break a thread easily.”

          That seemed to reassure him. “I’m willing to try it,” he agreed.

          “Good. Take off your cloak and put your arms behind your back while I get it,” Sansa said. She went to her sewing kit and retrieved a short spool of undyed thread. Taking a guess, she cut a length from the spool with her teeth.

          “Now, stay still.”

          Petyr’s cloak was tossed aside by the time she turned around. He moved to hold his arms behind his back. It looked a little awkward. The fabric of his surcoat and tunic bunched up at the shoulders, giving him a look that was awfully similar to a bird with its feathers ruffled.

          Sansa had to stifle a half-hysterical laugh; she knew he wouldn’t find the comparison amusing. She wrapped the thread around his wrists and tied it. Hopefully he wouldn’t find this too uncomfortable. She touched the underside of a wrist, and was surprised—his pulse was racing.

          “Are you all right?” she asked.

          “I’m fine.”

          Sansa walked around to face him. Petyr didn’t look to be in any pain. Good. Tilting his chin upward with a finger, she looked down into his eyes and said, “I’d like to pull and play with your hair for a while, Petyr.”

          She saw him react with surprise; this wasn’t the path where his thoughts had taken him, clearly. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. Sansa rewarded him with a smile.

          “After all, you’ve taken great liberties with mine in the past,” she reminded him, “as you once called it a ‘memorable shade,’ I believe.” They both knew he liked her hair; it reminded him of her mother. Now, she wanted to take some liberties with his.

          “I do like your hair,” Petyr replied, “It’s just as beautiful as the rest of you.”

          _Not my back_ , she thought. _Not my body_. _Not anymore_. Before he could add to that lie, Sansa ran her fingers through his hair. He had never lied to her before, but she appreciated it in this moment. Her nails lightly trailed along his scalp. She saw him lick his lips, tongue darting out to wet them. Sansa tugged gently on a lock of hair at his crown. His Adam’s apple quivered as he swallowed. She continued to run her hand through it. At one point, Sansa tugged on the wisps of silver at both temples.

          Petyr exhaled harshly, like he felt where her fingers went and was surprised anyway. Sansa watched him bite his lip again.

          _Now he’s just asking for it_ , she thought, feeling playful. She would make him beg for it aloud before they were through.

          “Did you make any of your whores do this for you?” she asked. Sansa was curious more than anything. How many liberties did Littlefinger take with his wares?

          “No.”

          “But you have seen others do this, in your brothels?”

          “Yes,” he admitted, “Sansa, what does—”

          She held up a finger to silence him. “Did you ever do this for another woman, kneel for her?”

          Petyr shook his head, saying, “No, Sansa. Never.”

          “Not even my mother?” Sansa’s tone was colder, even as she saw the impact her words had on him. Petyr looked like he’d been struck.

          “No,” he replied. He added, almost mournfully, “But I would have.”  

          _But she didn’t want you_ , a part of her countered, silently. _And you failed her when she needed you most_.

          “It’s too late, and you can’t apologize to the dead,” she said cruelly. He knew it, but to say it aloud made the wounds ache again, she half-hoped.

          _What would my mother think if she saw me now_? Sansa thought, looking down at Petyr. Hurt and sorrow seemed to radiate outward from his gaze, seeping into the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Instead of feeling guilty at causing him pain, she felt almost heady with it.

          Well, she felt a little guilty.

          “I know that,” he replied, looking down at the ground. “Sansa, please—”

          Sansa grabbed his chin and refused to let him pull away. “Submit to me, Petyr. Here and now, and without breaking the thread. I want you to do it for me—be here, in this moment, with me. And submit.”

          Petyr nodded against her fingers in a clumsy motion. Sansa saw that his grey-green eyes were wide, and his cheeks almost ruddy with emotion.

          “I submit myself to you, Sansa Stark. For as long as you desire it.”

          That struck a chord within her. She felt herself getting wet.

“Are you certain?” she asked. She tapped a finger against her lip, as though it weren’t obvious.

          “Yes.”

          “Then I accept you,” Sansa said, watching with delight as he bowed his head gratefully. She felt almost feverish with warmth, although the candles provided little heat. Before he could say anything, Sansa reached out and pressed a finger to his lips.

          “You’re going to continue to kneel here, like this, without breaking the thread, and you’re going to watch me,” she told him. “If you manage to leave the thread intact by the time I’m finished, I’ll let you give me a kiss goodnight.”

          Petyr’s gaze went right to her thighs, her cunt. It was like he could smell it, feel its heat radiating from her body.

          “Would you like that?” Sansa asked.

          “Yes,” he replied. His tongue darted out to wet his lips again.

          With that, she grabbed his collar. She began to undo the clasps at the top of his tunic, parting it on the way down. He raised an eyebrow at her.

          “Stay still,” she ordered, but gave him a small smile. She was excited, to see her seal again, marking him. Making him hers.

          Petyr obeyed.

          There was something thrilling, feeling his tiny movements still beneath her hands. Sansa moved two fingers to his collarbone, to the tip of the scar that Uncle Brandon gave him. He flinched when she touched it, so Sansa didn’t linger there. She moved her fingers up to his neck. His pulse was racing, and she noticed his breaths were shallow.

          “Do you like this?” she asked.

          “Yes.”

          “Good. I like seeing you this way, Petyr.” Truly, she did. Even if he could easily break the thread, it felt like she had control. She felt safe.

          “Do you?”

          “Yes,” she replied, “Now, stay still and let me see my direwolf seal.”

          He remained still, letting her do as she wished.

          When she bared that part of his chest, Sansa was disappointed. The direwolf seal had smudged—now it looked more like a beaver. She had to stifle a bubble of laughter. Of course it had gotten mashed down into a lump during the day, she realized. She hadn’t used sealing wax. But Sansa was fairly sure that sealing wax burned hotter than a regular candle, so she hadn’t used it.

          Petyr was luckier than he knew; Ramsay had never been so considerate.

          Partly dislodged, the circle of the wax remained tangled in his chest hair. Sansa dragged a nail down his chest, snagging and pulling the seal with it. Petyr’s nostrils flared, and his breath hitched.

          Sansa kept pulling. He wouldn’t leave this on for much longer, regardless. Petyr was always one to prize cleanliness. She imagined he wouldn’t be much different, on the road or off.

          “Almost got it,” she said.

          When she removed the remnants of the seal—or most of it, anyway—it came away with a good bit of his chest hair. Not that he was covered in hair, really. That she appreciated. Petyr’s scar cut a swathe right through it diagonally, and now there was a pale spot where the seal—and the hair attached to it—used to be.

          After another few moments, Sansa finished removing the wax. And some more hair with it. The sight of the bald patch in the middle of his chest nearly made her giggle. Instead, she touched the reddened skin lightly, sitting back on her heels while she inspected it. There was no blood, at least.

          “All done, Petyr.”

          Leaning forward, Sansa put a hand on Petyr’s shoulder for balance and kissed the irritated flesh. It was cold beneath her lips. He shivered under her kiss, but said nothing.

          Sansa took advantage of his distraction to slip a hand lower and pinch his nipple. Petyr gasped and instinctively moved away from the touch.

          “Don’t break that thread, Petyr, remember,” she warned. “Or else you won’t have earned the privilege to kiss me here.” Sansa rubbed her cunt through the fabric of her dress. She thought about denying him the privilege anyway, even if he did manage to remain bound the entire time. _That would drive him crazy_ , she thought, amused.

          The thought of him, cock in hand and denied the ability to touch her, made her even wetter.

          Petyr looked at the motions of her hand, his expression eager. _He wants me as I am_ , she thought. _Even after he saw what was carved away._

          “Do you want me, Petyr?” she asked.

          “Yes…” Petyr’s expression was open. He was unguarded, giving himself up to her. His eyes met hers, and he licked his lips. It sent a jolt straight to her core, and she shivered again.  

          Sansa pulled away from him and stood. She was delighted to hear a sigh of frustration from Petyr as he watched her.

          “Don’t go anywhere,” she told him with a tiny, satisfied smile.

          “I don’t plan on it.”

          Sansa shrugged off her heavy cape and sat on the bed. Pulling up her skirts, she showed him her sex, glistening and wet with desire. Petyr licked his lips in anticipation, but Sansa wasn’t done teasing him yet. Lying back atop the bed of furs, Sansa’s fingers slid down her body, stroking her thighs. She touched and played with the curls of red hair above her lips, occasionally drifting down to stroke her thighs. Taking a moment to prop herself up on the bed, she met Petyr’s eyes. She drank in the sight of him, kneeling and bound and waiting so patiently for her.

          It was intoxicating.

          “You make quite a sight,” Sansa admitted.

          “A good one?” He was amused.

          “Yes, you look handsome when you’re on your knees,” she replied, “now hush.”

          Petyr fell silent, but continued to watch her with eager eyes.

          Sansa resumed her touches, spending long moments running her fingers along her slit before dipping down, deeper into the folds. Petyr was watching her intensely. His attention and posture were perfect; Sansa realized that this was exactly what she’d wanted.

          She felt herself grow wetter still.

          Stroking the length of her slit before slipping a finger inside, then another, Sansa saw—and heard—Petyr gulp.

          “Do you like this?” she asked, the desire to hear it aloud within her.

          “I do,” he replied, voice low. The fabric of his tunic created a tent for his obvious erection.

          “Good,” she said, and flashed him an almost-lazy smile, before returning to the task at hand.

          Her finger sought out her clitoris and began to rub it. Slowly, at first, before settling into a rhythm that spread warmth to her thighs and down her legs. It was delightful, and she took her time with it. Knowing that Petyr was watching her pleasure added to it. His inability to touch her, to contribute, was somehow striking, yet completely arousing. 

          She both felt and heard her breathing become harsher. Sansa stifled a small moan of pleasure as she increased her pace. Her finger slipped into her sex, stroking that sweet, but firm spot behind the bone. Then another finger. And another. Then she returned to her nub and flicked it roughly.

          This time a soft moan slipped out.

          Petyr was watching her every move with hunger in his expression, licking his lips every now and then. If he were closer she would kiss him, but she didn’t feel like getting up. There would be other opportunities, later.

          Sansa’s pace sped up, and soon she was panting with arousal, mercilessly rubbing her clit before pressing down, hard. There was a brief moment of pain, but it gave way to something sweeter. Sansa felt her orgasm building, and knew she had to finish.

          After another few impossibly-long moments, Sansa pressed a fist to her mouth to try and block her low moan. Her other, busier hand froze, and her thighs shook with the impact of her release.

          _Gods_ , she thought, trying not to whimper. Tremors ran down her legs, and her head was thrown backwards, pressed into the furs. She couldn’t see Petyr right now, not even if she tried. For a moment, Sansa felt like she couldn’t move. All of that teasing for his benefit, edging and stretching out the length of her orgasm, was well worth it. The thought of Petyr here, kneeling before her as though in worship, only added to it.

          Her lips were hot and swollen with arousal around her fingers, almost sucking at them gently. Wiping her hand on the furs, Sansa pulled herself up on her elbows to look at Petyr properly. He remained exactly where he was, kneeling. Gazing at her as though entranced.

          “Did you like that?” Sansa asked. She tried to keep her voice neutral, as though unaffected by what just happened.  

          “Oh, yes,” Petyr breathed. He smiled at her; it was one that reached his eyes.

          “I’m glad you did,” she admitted. The feeling almost surprised her.

          Despite the pain she’d inflicted earlier—or, perhaps, because of it—Sansa wanted to give him pleasure, too. She began to undo the ties on her dress, letting it fall to the ground around her.

          Nude before him now, she saw Petyr’s gaze roam over every inch, before settling on her sex. She could still feel the heat emanating from it. Her lips twitched and throbbed. Sansa wanted—no, needed—more.

          And Petyr would give it to her willingly.

          While she ran her fingers teasingly along her slit, Petyr’s attention never wavered. Her fingers dipped down, briefly, before she pulled away. Sansa brought wet fingers to his lips, honeyed with her desire.

          His lips puckered, and he kissed her fingers. Delighted, Sansa probed further. He let her put two in his mouth. They sat heavy on his tongue before he sucked on them gently.

          “I believe you remember that taste,” she said, coyly.

          He let slip her fingers with the intent to respond, but Sansa chose that moment to pinch his nipple with her other hand. Petyr hissed in pleasure.

          “What do you want, Petyr?”

          “More.” His response was simple, breathless with need.

          “Do you want it badly enough to beg me for it?” she asked.

          “Of course I do, Sansa.”

          “Then what are you waiting for?” Sansa crossed her arms expectantly.

          “Please, Sansa…let me kiss you.”

          “On the cheek?” She feigned ignorance, making him spell it out for her. Sansa enjoyed dragging it out of him.

          “Let me kiss you there…let me taste you again. Please…”

          He trailed off as she crossed the distance between them and crouched down. She didn’t kneel, but bounced on her heels and hovered a bit above him. His expression held an eagerness that she was coming to enjoy—and something else. Regret, maybe? She wasn’t sure.

          Sansa leaned in and kissed him, roughly.

          At first, he hesitated. He’d only ever been the one to lean in and take it. To steal a kiss in an unguarded moment. But Sansa’s tongue pressed urgently against his lips, parting them. She felt him relax and lean into her, returning the kiss.

 _Ah, there it is_ , she thought. That taste of mint, filling her mouth—it was so overpowering she almost felt cold. She gripped his hair with a hand to keep him in place. To keep herself in place. When Sansa pulled away, a fleeting look of disappointment and need stole across Petyr’s face. He wanted more, still; she could tell.

          “All right, then,” she said, capitulating. “Is this what you want?” Sansa framed her lips with her fingers, spreading them wide in front of him. Another finger rubbed at her clitoris almost idly, as if she were bored.

          “Yes,” Petyr said, swallowing heavily as he stared at her.

          Glancing behind his back—the thread was still tied—Sansa smiled at him. “I did promise to reward you if you didn’t break the thread…” she said, “Do you want this as your reward?”

          “Yes,” he replied.

 _Good_.

          Sansa felt a burst of pleasure at his willingness to do this, just to taste her there again. For asking—begging—instead of just taking what he wanted, like a monster. Like her husband.

          “Kiss me a little more, first,” she said. She wanted to feel his tongue in her mouth again. She wanted to suck that cold, safe, feeling from between his lips.

          Petyr gladly obeyed. His kiss this time was eager. Sansa was always surprised at the deceptive softness of his lips. She did enjoy kissing him, but she found she liked being the one to lead this dance.  

          When she tweaked his nipple again, Sansa felt Petyr’s surprised gasp. The rush of air against lips and teeth and tongue. She felt herself growing wet again in anticipation. Hand in his hair, she pushed downward when the kiss ended, thrusting her breasts up at him in the most unsubtle motion imaginable.

          Petyr obeyed her unspoken command, letting her guide his movements. He left kisses on the round of her breast. First one, then another. Then he took a nipple in his teeth and bit it gently.

          “Harder,” she said. Sansa tightened her hand still tangled in his hair.

          He complied, biting her in earnest. She had to stifle a moan of pleasure as it jolted through her—a shock of lightning down her spine. Down her thighs.

          “Like that,” she said, voice heavy with need. “Gods, Petyr…”

         He kissed and licked across her breasts, and she shuddered against him for another few moments. When she pulled away, Sansa rose up to her full height and spread her lips for him.

          “Can you do this for me, but with your hands still tied?” she asked.

          “I believe I can manage.” If he thought the request odd, he didn’t show it.

          “Then what are you waiting for?”

          Petyr leaned forward a bit, looking up at her. His expression held something she couldn’t quite place. Before Sansa could think on it further, he kissed her fingers gently. Then he kissed his way up her inner thighs. Petyr leaned closer and blew gently on her clit, a jolt of cold pleasure as he teased her. Sansa was almost embarrassed at how much her legs were trembling against him. She felt flushed.

          Then his lips pressed against her, and his tongue began to lap her up in earnest.

          “Like that…” she said, with a hand on his head to guide him. He continued for long minutes, and it was growing more difficult for Sansa to remain quiet.

          There was a sudden noise outside the tent.

          Startled, Sansa froze.

          She knew that noise. Somewhere, a pack of hounds had begun to howl. It was immediate and piercing, and created fearful sounds and echoes that carried for far too long in the night. The intensity of their cries was nightmarish.  

          Sansa felt her world tighten, and a numb feeling rushed through her limbs. She couldn’t feel her thighs, her arms, her fingers—any part of herself at all—save a rush of dizziness that fogged her brain.  _Ramsay. It’s Ramsay’s hounds. He’s found us_ , she thought wildly. She began to shake with an immediate, rattling terror.

          She didn’t remember moving away from Petyr.

          Sansa found herself on the bed. She was shaking so hard she thought she’d simply fold in on herself, becoming smaller and smaller, until the noises overwhelmed her.

          “Sansa, what is it? Sansa?”

          She heard Petyr’s voice, but it was muffled and almost distant. She was crying. Tears were streaming down her face, and she was mortified, but couldn’t do anything to stop.

          She felt disconnected, disjointed. Gripped tightly in a shroud of her own misery.

          The howls stopped as suddenly as they started.  

          It took many long minutes for Sansa to calm down. The hounds had stopped their cries. It was a commotion from hunting dogs in the kennels here, not Ramsay’s hounds trailing a scent. Logic returned to her slowly. Eventually, she became aware of an arm around her. Petyr’s. Sansa pulled away, wiping at her flushed cheeks.

          “Did I do something?” Petyr asked, hurt and concern on his features.

          “No, I—no. It wasn’t you,” she replied, shutting her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at him. She was mortified. Sansa took a deep breath as her heart continued to hammer in her ears.

          “Was it the hounds?” From his tone, she could guess he didn’t really understand. He was probing in the dark. What did he know of Ramsay’s hunting dogs, after all?

          “Yes,” she said, nodding. _How long will I have to talk about Ramsay in my bed, in fear, before he holds no more power over me_? She wondered.

          “When I escaped from Winterfell…he sent his hounds after me. Threatened to let them _hurt_ me, just enough, so long as I could still provide him an heir.” Sansa looked down at her hands as she said it. _It’s not cowardly to cry, but I didn’t want him to see this_ , she thought. Shakily, she pawed at a wet cheek.

          “I’m so sorry,” Petyr said, voice gentle. He didn’t try to touch her again.

          “What he did to me…I’m going to carry it forever, Petyr, just like your scar,” she told him. It bled into the rest of her, like a pot of ink tipped over parchment.

          Petyr rubbed a spot near his collar, fidgeting in his discomfort. She could tell her words affected him. _I didn’t want him to see this_ , she thought again, looking at her fists in her lap.

          “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked. When she looked up at him, Sansa could tell he was sincere; it shone in his eyes.

          “No,” she said, finally. _Not unless he can produce my husband’s severed head_ , she thought. _Not tonight_. _Or tomorrow, for that matter_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please know that Sansa's episode and reliving of her trauma are not going to accurately depict PTSD, because it is a disorder that manifests in different ways, with different triggers. I also find a futility in applying real world diagnoses to fictional characters. I'm operating on my experience with it, and I know that it is not going to represent how others experience it. I did not, however, want Sansa's trauma at the hands of Ramsay Bolton to be taken lightly or ignored. Writing trauma in fiction is (for me) difficult. But I do think it's a beast that should be dealt with, and I'm disappointed in the show runners for essentially glossing over it. Their choice to write her into this experience has become an integral part of her sexual development, and it shouldn't be ignored or made to seem less serious than it is.


	5. Wolf Dreams

 

That night, Sansa’s dreams were almost peaceful. She had been with Lady, running and looking for the godswood. It felt like being back home together, before everything. But they couldn’t find the godswood—the huge tree with its blood-red leaves was nowhere to be found. Every which way they went, they were boxed in with wooden walls. She had looked at Lady, seen those large, sad eyes, and knew that they wouldn’t find it here. Those amber eyes had looked at her, and faded. Lady was still with her; certainty filled Sansa’s heart, even as she continued to wander. To look for the godswood, and look at the moon through the branches.

          There were men around her, but she wasn’t scared. They knew her, and walked around her as though she were little more than air. One did say something to her, when she whined and scratched at a wooden log. But when he did, she couldn’t make out the words. His voice was too low, more a rumble than anything. When she stopped scratching, he left her alone once more.

          Sansa felt fast, even though all she did was pace—going from one wall to another. The men she saw, especially the ones atop the walls, shivered with the cold mountain air. But she felt none of it. She smelled damp earth and other things carried on the night air. The rank oil that men burned on torches, moldy thatch on some of the houses. All the smells combined were almost overpowering. She smelled animals around, too—chickens, mostly—but they were asleep.

          Sansa felt stronger than ever. She felt whole.

*

          When the dream faded, and the tent lightened with the dawn, Sansa relished the warm cocoon of furs she’d made. Fully awake now, she was slow to get out of bed. _It’s so much colder up here in the mountains_ , she thought. With the air nipping at her, Sansa hurried to get dressed. The tent was empty; there was no sign that Petyr had ever been inside. She thought about what had happened last night, kept thinking about the hounds, and the noises they’d made. The noises _she_ had made. Petyr had seen a sliver of who she was in those moments, and she was both embarrassed and grateful. It would have lasted longer, had he not been there.

          When she left her tent, Sansa tried to push those thoughts aside. If she didn’t, she was sure it’d be plain on her face. All the same, she avoided the barracks and dog kennels, taking the long way around to the mead hall. Even before she neared the large building, Sansa heard shouting within. It rivaled the bird songs and the sounds of people starting the day. Then she heard an angry reply. Not as loud and insistent as the first shout, but loud enough.

          It was Jon’s voice. _Who is he yelling at, at this hour_? She wondered. There were clansmen and women gathered near the entrance, and a few wildlings, but none dared enter.

          “I am tellin’ you,” Jon said, “that I am _not_ the one you’re looking for.”

          “And the _nerve_ of you, boy,” a voice answered, hotly. “Lying to my face. You’ve got that wolf look t’ ye, don’t you _dare_ deny it.”

          It was a woman’s voice. Sansa nearly had to push past the onlookers to get inside. There was a middle-aged woman with dark hair, shaking a finger at her brother. She was tall, broad-shouldered, and her bare arms were corded with muscle. The woman looked like she was ready to hit Jon, too. And Ser Davos, Petyr, and Lord Wull were just standing by, letting it happen. _Why don’t they say something_? Sansa wondered, growing more confused and upset by the moment. She cleared her throat to make her presence known. Petyr saw her first; his expression was unreadable. Then Lord Wull and the others faced her. The woman kept her eyes on Jon for a long moment, glaring at him.

          “Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Sansa demanded.

          When the older woman finally turned to Sansa, her expression became one of surprise. Then anger.

          “Oh, fuck me,” she swore. “There’s _two_ of you?”

          Jon looked to Sansa, briefly. “My lady, you’re mistaken. I am what you claim—I think—”

          “You think?” The woman interrupted. Her tone was mocking, sarcastic. Her expression incredulous. She glared at Jon suspiciously, then turned to Lord Wull.

          “You brought two wolves under your roof, and I’m telling you, they violated their guest rights.”

          “Camildis, calm yourself,” Lord Wull said, frowning. He looked puzzled.

          “What is she talking about?” Sansa asked Jon directly. This Camildis woman wasn’t making any sense, but Jon would.

          “She—” Jon looked at their audience, as if he were embarrassed to say it aloud. “She says I’m a warg, and I—I think I am. It’s what Quorin Halfhand and some of my brothers in the Watch told me. But I don’t know what she’s goin’ on about,” Jon said, clearly exasperated. He looked at the woman again.

          “I promise you, we did nothing last night that would offend,” Jon assured her—and Lord Wull.

          Sansa froze. _She’s not talking about what we did last night, is she_?

She shared a look with Petyr—he didn’t seem to know what the woman was talking about, but he looked cautious, unsure. He gave her the slightest shake of his head, unnoticed by anyone else.

          _Say nothing_ , a voice in her mind whispered. It was as if Petyr were standing next to her, whispering in her ear.

          “By the gods, I’ve never heard a worse lie,” the woman spat. She glowered at Jon.

          “Camildis, calm yourself,” Lord Wull said, finally. “I will _not_ tell you again.” He tugged on the ends of his beard impatiently.

          Camildis flashed him a look, but complied.

          “Tell us what you’re accusing the boy of, Camil.”

          Jon looked annoyed at their insistent use of ‘boy’ when referring to him, but he let the Camil woman speak.

          “You took my wolf from me last night, boy,” Camil said finally, her voice cold. “If you tell me you did it a’ purpose, I will demand blood. You can’t just ride another warg’s wolf like that—they are bonded for life—not unless ye force them to.”

          A warg.  _Jon was a warg, like in Old Nan’s tales_? Sansa looked at him. Everyone—even Jon—seemed to accept her accusation as fact. _Like his brothers in the watch told him_ , she thought. _Did our father know_?  _Did my mother know_? She wondered. _Did she hate that Jon has this…this thing inside him_? _Did she beg our father to send him away because of it_? _Or was it because he was a bastard, and the rest was irrelevant_?

          Tormund was first to break the silence that followed her accusation. He rolled his eyes at Camil. “Even you southern skin changers have sticks up your asses,” he said. He shook his head almost ruefully. “Jon Snow is a warg, and I’ve seen it myself. We don’t fear them like you kneelers do.”

          Camil turned and looked Tormund up and down. From her expression, she deemed him unworthy of her time. “So, Snow, you tame a wildling, and you think you can just take my wolf from me?” she demanded, turning her attention back to Sansa’s brother. Several dark braids in her hair clicked and rattled; the wooden beads bouncing with the force of her movements. Her anger radiated outward.

          “Camil,” Lord Wull said, his expression stern. “It’s clear he has no clue what you’re talkin’ about.”

          “Then what about her?” Camil’s harsh voice was directed at _her_ now.

          Sansa froze.

          “I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” she said, finally.

          “Don’t you ‘my lady’ me,” Camil scoffed. “Or are you pretendin’ to be just as ignorant as this one? Don’t give me that tripe.”

          “Lady Camildis, I have _no_ idea what you mean,” Sansa confessed. She truly didn’t. Her mind raced as she tried to remember what Old Nan had said of them, but she’d never liked those tales. Instead, she’d focused on ones with knights and fair maidens.  

          “My _wolf_ , girl,” Camil said, storming over to her. She gripped Sansa tightly by the arm, and only relented when Ser Davos and Petyr stepped forward to intervene.

          “One of you two wargs stole my wolf last night, and now she’s lyin’ sick in my hut. Turned off her food. One o’ you rode her roughly, and I ought to knock whoever did it bloody.”  

          _Me_? _A warg_? Sansa almost laughed.

          “I’m no warg, my lady,” she told Camil, shaking her head. “You’re mistaken, truly.”

          Clearly.

          “It’s no use lying to me, girl,” Camil replied. “Wargs can recognize each other, clear as day.”

          _Even if she’s a warg, it doesn’t mean she’s telling the truth_ , Sansa thought. Her mind raced. _Why would she lie_? _To get something from us_. _To hurt us, maybe_.

          “Then you must know that I am _not_ , in fact, a warg,” Sansa said. Her voice was insistent. “I didn’t even know Jon was one—not until this very moment.” Sansa looked to her brother for confirmation. This woman was half-mad, Jon’s expression said. 

          A look of realization crossed Camil’s pale face. “Oh, fuck me,” she swore. Her nostrils flared in anger.

          “Camil!” Lord Wull pounded his fist on the nearest table. The impact sent bowls and cups rattling.

          Instead of being cowed, Camil whirled around to look at her lord, beads clacking. “You brought _two_ ignorant wolf pups into our home, and they violated my Chaika.”

          “You’re certain?” the big lord asked.

          “Aye, I know what it looks like when a beast’s been ridden by sommat they don’t want, Big Bucket.”

          “Are you certain it was them that did it?” he clarified. “These are the Ned’s children.”

          Camil turned to look at Jon, then Sansa, before nodding. Immediately, Ser Davos came forward to Jon and Sansa’s defense.

          “I don’t know much about wargs, m’lady, but I do know these two,” he said, “Jon and Lady Sansa would never do anything to offend or harm a host, not while they were guests under their roof.”

          “Then they didn’t mean to do it, which means they can’t control themselves,” Camil replied, “and this is an even bigger mess.” She scowled, before turning to look at Sansa.

          “D’ye still fancy they’re just dreams, then? Or that animals seem to do what you want sometimes, because it’s what they wanted? How long have you been lyin’ to yourself, girl? Hmm?”

          That accusation made Sansa even angrier.

          “I’m no warg, I think I would’ve known,” Sansa snapped, the words spilling out of her. “My _father_ —”

          She stopped.

          Lord Wull’s expression became sympathetic. Jon met her eyes, and Sansa felt a rush of emotion. _Father couldn’t have known_ , she thought. _Or else he would’ve said something_.

          “The Ned wasn’t no warg,” Camil said, matter-of-factly. “He couldn’t have known. I do. You’re like a baby, one with no control.”

          That stung her. Sansa was tired of being called a child.

          “Did you have wolf dreams again last night, girl?” Camil asked, voice calmer.

          Sansa felt everyone’s eyes on her. Even Jon’s. He wore a curious expression.

          “I did,” she admitted, “but I was dreaming of Lady, like when we were at Winterfell.”

          “Lady?” Jon asked. “But she's been dead for years, hasn't she?”

          “She was your wolf?” Camil asked.

          “My direwolf,” Sansa corrected her, sadly. She had seen Lady’s large amber eyes so clearly last night, been so sure of her presence. “I dreamed about her last night. That was all.”

          The older woman was watching her closely. Uncomfortable, Sansa looked away—or tried to. Everyone else’s attention was still on her. When she looked back at Camil, the older woman’s features were full of pity.

          “That’ll never be all there is to it. Deep down, y’know I’m right.” Camil’s expression was one of regret. Of sadness. “This is serious, Bucket,” Camil said to her lord. “Who knows what kind of mayhem they’re capable of?”

          “We are _still_ right here, my lady,” Jon reminded her, looking pained. Sansa didn’t like being spoken about as though she weren’t there, either, but the other woman’s words continued to ring through her mind. A warg.

          “Camil, I know you wanted to march with Einar, but—”

          “But nothin’,” Camil interrupted, pointing a finger at Lord Wull. “I know what you’re gonna ask, and my answer is no.”

          “I wasn’t going to ask,” Lord Wull said, dangerously.

          “I’ll not do it,” she replied, squaring her jaw at him.

          Sansa glanced over at Petyr. Instead of watching the heated exchange, his eyes were on her. Questioning. She shook her head slightly. He would understand. _I don’t know what she’s talking about_ , Sansa thought.

          “You don’t get to say ‘no,’ Camil. It’s your duty.” Lord Wull’s voice was louder, carrying throughout the hall. “You said it yourself—these two will get into a mess, elsewise. Especially when the other clans and their skin changers join us, and our camp will have a beast a stone’s throw in every direction. I need ye to go with Jon Snow and his men when they depart for Bear Island.”

          “Pardon me, Lord Wull, but…why, exactly, does the lady need to accompany us?” Jon asked.

          “You need a warg to show ye what to do,” Camil said, her tone implying it was obvious. “A teacher. And her, especially.” She pointed to Sansa.

          “I am not a warg, I can’t be,” Sansa protested. Her voice sounded faint in her own ears.  

          Camil walked closer to Sansa, staring into her eyes intently. “I see a wolf in you, girl. Grey, sad, and angry. You need guidance from your own kind.”

          The older woman was so close that Sansa could see tiny designs etched into the beads she wore. _I can’t be_ , she thought stubbornly. Even if the other woman’s words struck a chord within her. About to deny it yet again, Sansa let out a small gasp instead. The brown eyes before her lightened, irises becoming hazel with flecks of gold. It was dazzling, yet strange. Sansa felt a ribbon of…something, inside of her. An emotion she couldn’t really place that sat heavily in her stomach.  

          “My lady?” Ser Davos was concerned.

          “Your eyes…” Sansa trailed off as the color of Camil’s eyes muddied, turning deep brown once again.

          “You see? We can recognize each other. It’s part of our gift,” the older woman said. “The animals are spooked, and the trees have eyes again. We have no reason to balk at wargs, here.”

          Sansa looked over at Jon. He wore a frown like a second cloak. She wondered what he thought of all this, how his brothers of the Night’s Watch found out. Before she could figure out what to say, Camil spoke again.

          “I need you—both of you—to come with me. It’s important.”

          “What? Why?” Already Sansa recoiled at the thought. She didn’t want to go anywhere with this woman.

          “I need to show you both something. Do I have your leave, Bucket?”

          Lord Wull nodded, but he crossed to where Camil stood, belly rippling in movement. He was taller than the woman, but only just. And twice as wide, too.

          “I’ve known you all my life, Camil, but don’t you go runnin’ your mouth again before you know the truth o’ the matter. You’ll get half the keep afraid of Snow by midday, and it’ll mean more trouble for me.”

          “They _should_ be afraid of him,” Camil replied. “And her, too.”

 

*

         

          It wasn’t a far walk to the low hut Camil identified as her own. It was one with a thatch roof. A man was outside, sitting on a low stump and peeling potatoes. He looked up at their approach, and his broad face gave them the nastiest look. His skin was tan, and he was almost as bald as an egg, save some stubbly dark hair on the sides.

          “Is it these ones that did it?” His question was accusatory, and he wore a frown to match it.

          “Relax, Einar,” Camil said, waving his anger off with a gesture. “It was an accident.”

          “Accident? How d’ye do that to a beast by accident?”

          “I’ll tell you all about it later,” Camil replied, shooting him a look that Sansa couldn’t see. “In here, you two.”

          Camil led the way inside, and a reluctant Sansa followed behind her brother. Jon held a hand behind himself, as though to shield her from harm. It was momentarily annoying. Soon the sound of retching drew Sansa’s attention. When she peered around her brother’s mess of hair, the first thing she saw were the puddles of sick. It smelled rank, but Camil and Jon didn’t seem to mind.

          There was a wolf in the far corner, in the process of vomiting again. The worst part, Sansa thought, was the heaving, whining sound it made. She recognized it as the wolf that met them on the trail, with dark fur and a patch of white on her chest. When the wolf quit heaving, she made a few licking motions with her tongue, as though to banish the taste of it. Looking up, the wolf made eye contact with Sansa and started backing further into the corner. She started whining again. Her fur shook as she got onto the floor, lowering herself. It was a sign of deference, showing that she was not a threat.

          “You did this to Chaika.” Camil’s expression held no sympathy for Sansa, but she wasn’t intending to be cruel, either.

          “I did _not,_ ” she answered. Her hands were clenched into stubborn fists, and she stepped backwards blindly.

          “Sansa?” Jon’s expression was open, but sad.

          “D’ye still have the dreams, then? Even after Lady…?”

          “Yes. Even after they killed Lady.” Lady was such a good, noble creature. She’d always been the first to sniff out a lie, to know a person’s intentions. Their true intentions. Even her dreams paled in comparison, after Lady died.

          “I’m sorry they killed your direwolf,” Camil said. When Sansa looked at her, the older woman was crouching down near her wolf. It licked her hand, briefly. “She was a part of you, just as you’re a part of her. If you’d been in her mind when they killed her, it would’ve driven you mad out o’ your own skull.”

          Maybe she was only half-mad. The thought came suddenly, unbidden, like a bout of inappropriate laughter.

          “I don’t know what this has to do with your wolf,” Sansa said. She shook her head and took another look at the creature. The puddles of vomit. The shaking fur, and wide, honey-colored eyes.  

          “Because, by understanding your loss, I see the truth of the matter. I can’t be mad with you over somethin’ you can’t control.” Her tone had an air of forced calm, like she was explaining a simple matter to a child—one half Sansa’s age.

          “I don’t understand what ‘my loss,’ which happened years ago, has anything to do with your wolf being sick.”

          “You need an animal to bond with. To practice on.” Camil was tapping her lip with a finger, looking past her wolf, past the floor. Lost in thought for a moment. “Once a beast’s been ridden, like a horse broken to the saddle, any man—or woman—” Camil grinned, rudely, “—anyone can mount him. Once a beast’s been joined to someone, any skin changer can slip inside. Can ride him. But a wolf? Wolves mate for life, with us and with each other.”

          So, if Sansa slipped into this woman’s wolf last night…she did violate guest's rights. The wolf made a low sound in the back of its throat, before it looked right at her.

          “She’ll be all right,” Camil said. She eyed the beast with a small sigh and shook her head. “Eventually.”

          “That’s good to hear,” Jon agreed. He looked hopeful, but like he wasn’t sure what he needed to be hopeful about in the first place. Sansa almost laughed at the sight. She was sure Camil didn’t need someone laughing in her face. And that Einar might come back, shaking his finger at her.

          “The bond works both ways, mind you,” Camil warned. “They can adopt some of our worst mannerisms. And sometimes, we can become feral and adopt what should only be theirs.”

          “What do you mean?” Sansa wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. Just like Old Nan’s stories, of wargs bending animals and the darkness to their will, oppressing anyone they came across. Of the self-declared Warg King from Sea Dragon Point, who had become so heinous that a King of Winter, a Stark, had to put him down.

          “There are rules, and you have to learn them quickly.”

          “Why?” Sansa remained unclear on that.

          “Doesn’t your house know it best?” Camil asked. Her voice was serious, but had a mocking lilt to it that made Sansa feel more stubborn than she ought to be. “Winter is coming. Stark. Snow.” Camil nodded to Jon. “Snow. You are the blood of the North, both of ye. Learn to use the gifts the Old Gods have given you, so we can stop the dead.”

          The words touched her. Sansa felt like this was something her father might’ve said, if he knew of the mess happening beyond the Wall.

          “Why do you want to help?” She wanted to know.

          “Duty. And to keep you from causing a fuss, so we don’t kill each other before winter comes. The dead will try and kill us aplenty,” Camil said. She gave Sansa a toothy grin.

          “We’ve got to use what gifts we have to survive. And make sure the dead do not.”  

 

*

 

          Sansa needed some time alone to think. She also realized that she hadn’t eaten since the night before. The sun was shining bright overhead when she left the woman—and her wolf—behind. Instead of heading towards the mead hall, Sansa turned towards the gates. The guards let her go; some had already returned from prayer in the godswood. There were low structures in the distance, but Sansa could see charred wood and posts near the edge of the massive weirwood, before the valley sloped downwards to the hills. This godswood had been inside a keep, once. But they’d had to rebuild.

          Strategically, it made sense, she supposed. The land sloped upward, and they had a mountain at their backs. They could avoid being surprised easily. But a weirwood couldn’t grow in the shadow of a mountainside, like the godswood in the Vale. The soil there was too shallow, too lifeless, to support a massive heart tree.

          The weirwood here, in the heart of the mountains, was a specimen. It was large, and the eyes carved into the side were gathering red sap. It wept gently. Sansa recalled countless summer afternoons, hot and scratching at insects, and praying desperately to be elsewhere. Anywhere, so long as it was away from the bone white roots of a tree that watched her. From the cold waters that nourished it.

          _Maybe the gods do see us_ , she thought. _And there are as many as they say_. That all the gods and those who passed on would live forever…stretching out in the weirwood groves. Maybe she’d see Lady again one day. And maybe she had no right to feel so hopeful. That thought plagued her.

          “My lady?”

          A voice drew her abruptly from her train of thought. Sansa felt her heart clamor in her throat. Even though others could come and go as they pleased, she hadn’t expected company. As he came into her view, she relaxed. It was Petyr.  _Did he bribe the guards, or can we be interrupted at any moment_? She wondered.

          “I didn’t mean to disturb you, my lady—”

          “Yes, you did,” Sansa interrupted him. When he grew closer, she stood up and focused on brushing dirt off her cloak. She didn’t want him to see the need on her face. The need to be taller than him, in this moment. To be in control of the conversation.

          “Do you wish to talk about last night, or do you wish to talk about this morning?” That was what mattered. But she didn’t really want to talk about either. Especially with Petyr.

          “I had imagined a conversation that could cover both, perhaps,” Petyr said. He shot her a sly look. “A stretch of the imagination, I know. Privacy is hard-won here, I’m afraid.”

          “Then I’m sure you had a point…?”

          The watch towers and barricades had all burned near here, but they could still provide refuge for someone listening in. A smaller man might accomplish it. Or a woman.

          “The point is, I saw you last night,” he said. His voice was concerned. “You were shaking in your sleep and moaning, Sansa. It was almost—”

          “Almost… what?” Sansa felt dizzy with anticipated outrage.

          “Almost guttural, one might say,” Petyr said. He shrugged, plucking at the corner of a sleeve. “You sounded like you were dreaming of an animal, Sansa. As an animal. A wolf wouldn’t be too far of a stretch.”

          “So, you believe her? This Camil woman, who says she’s a warg?” Sansa’s voice was incredulous. She was already too close to the sprawling roots of the weirwood tree as it was, but Petyr moved closer still. He reached out to try and take her hand, but she pulled away.

          “I’d say that I don’t know if she’s telling the truth or not, but the head of this clan believes her. Believes what she claims to be,” he said.

          “How do you know?”

          “Ser Davos and Tormund spoke to him after you and your…brother went with her.” The way his voice lilted upwards, as smug as the smile he wore, left Sansa feeling annoyed.

          “And…?”She was tired, too. If she really did what Camil claimed, and ridden this wolf in the night, then did she truly sleep at all?  _Do wargs sleep_? She wondered.

          “And she’s lived here all her life. They know her and what she is,” he replied.

          “Do you know? What she is, I mean?”

          “I’ve heard the stories, about skin changers and wargs.” Petyr made a face. “None of those stories ended well for them, against the common folk.”

          “They were afraid of wargs, and wolves. They still are,” she said. _They know what wolves are capable of_ , she thought. The idea of a wolf with a person’s ambition could be frightening. That was why the Queen had needed to be rid of the Stark direwolves.

          “Do you think all those stories and songs are true?” Sansa was genuinely curious.

          Petyr’s expression looked worried now, with the lines around his mouth deepening. “Stories can come from a place of truth, but it depends on whomever tells them,” he said, finally.

          It was a cautious answer.

          “Do you think wargs are real, Petyr? That _I’m_ one of them?”

          “Yes.” That answer was immediate, and without a doubt.

          “Why?” she asked.

          “Because I don’t know why you’ve been having those dreams, why you couldn't be roused—I tried,” he said, voice quieting. He addressed her, but his eyes were watching the terrain around them. The cool wind that stirred blood-red leaves, the rustle of fauna, who grazed somewhere out of sight. “But I don’t know why she would accuse you of doing those things, of slipping into the mind of a wolf and riding it, otherwise.” She could tell that he wasn’t comfortable discussing the gaps in his knowledge.

          “So…? Does not knowing frighten you?” she asked.

          “Yes.” Petyr’s eyes no longer searched their surroundings. Instead, he held her gaze, before reaching out and touching her arm gently.

          “What we don’t know is what usually gets us killed, Sansa. I didn’t know about Ramsay, and you almost died.” He pushed aside the braid that framed her cheek, watching it coil around her collar.

          “I don’t want to keep paying the price for your mistakes,” she said.

          “Nor should you have to,” Petyr replied. His voice was kinder, but he was glancing around them again. Sansa frowned, but she didn’t pull away as he stroked her cheek. She wanted to believe him. Sansa focused on the ink-colored ruff around his collar. She could see the outline of his neck, could almost imagine his scar. She’d seen him last night, had liked what he had to offer before the mood was ruined. Did he like what he saw, as the hounds bayed and cried in the darkness around them?

          “Are you afraid of me?” She saw him blink with surprise, taken aback by her sudden question. She felt him grip her arm more tightly.

          “No, Sansa. Of course not.”

          It was a lie.

 _One kindly meant_ , she thought. _But a lie, nonetheless_. She felt her throat tighten. A harsh feeling settled over her shoulders like a cloak.

          “Leave me be, Lord Baelish,” she said, at last. He was still touching her arm, and it took a few moments too long for him to respond.

          “Sansa, this isn’t the first time people have suggested you’re a shape-changer, a skin changer, or what have you.”

          “What?” She stopped. There it was again—that tight feeling, in her chest. He was right. There were mutterings at court, in King’s Landing. Especially after Robb surprised the Jaime Lannister at Whispering Wood, and then at Oxcross. They said Robb turned into a wolf himself and ate Lannister dead. Sansa had heard similar things whispered about her. Noble lords, ladies, and their servants, too…they’d all said she could do the same. A she-wolf, they had said, even after Lady was killed.

          “When Robb was winning battles, I remember hearing ladies of the court saying similar things.”

          Petyr nodded and said, “After Joffrey’s untimely demise—”

          “You mean ‘murder’,” she interrupted.

          “Yes…after that, and you disappeared from the capital, I heard stories from a few sources. Stories of how you poisoned the king, then changed into the shape of a wolf with bat wings before flying off.”

          “That sounds ridiculous.” It was even more absurd than being called a warg; certainly it was disappointing.

          “Yes, but don’t blame them for their overactive imaginations,” Petyr suggested, shrugging lightly, “They were left grasping in the dark for answers, after the death of their beloved king.”

          Sansa almost smiled. The knot of anxiety was still heavy in her stomach, but she appreciated the attempt at humor regardless.

          “Tywin Lannister couldn’t figure it out, how your brother Robb found a trail through the mountains and surprised them at Oxcross,” he added. Petyr had never spoken to her about Tywin Lannister or his battle strategies. Not that the feelings or frustrations of a long-dead lord mattered, here.

          “You think Robb was a warg, with Grey Wind?” she asked.

          “Seeing through the eyes of a wolf would be an immense asset in battle.”

          “Do you think I’ll be an asset, with a power like this?” Sansa narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion.

          “You were the key to the North before that clanswoman started crowing about wargs and wolves,” he said. His tone was softer; his words were an attempt to reassure her. They didn’t. When Petyr leaned closer, as though to kiss her, Sansa placed both hands on his chest and stopped him. _Can’t he see this isn’t the time_? She thought, irritated.

          He looked up at her, eyes searching her face.

          “Talking about my dead siblings doesn’t put me in the mood, Petyr,” she told him. Her tone was flat, unwelcoming.

          “I’m sorry, Sansa. I didn’t mean—”

          “I’m sure you didn’t, Lord Baelish,” she interrupted, “but if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to accomplish before the day is done.” Sansa pushed past him, but not before she saw the look of confusion—and the flash of hurt—in his features.

          “May I see you later tonight?” he asked.

          “Oh no, I don’t think that would be wise,” she said. “Good day, Lord Baelish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Camildis [ka-MEEL-dis], or Camil [ka-MEEL] for short. 
> 
> While Sansa's (unknowing) actions are not as bad as what Bran does when he wargs into Hodor, I would say it's still a taboo within this sub-section of the population. 1 in 1,000 is born a skin changer, and wargs are rarer still. And 1 in 1,000 of those is a greenseer. The Starks themselves have a very long history with wargs, and after a King of Winter killed the self-styled Warg King in Sea Dragon Point, they executed all of his animals, his wives, and his sons. Then they married his daughters. It's an effective way to kill a house, and the Starks did it quite often. 
> 
> The fact that this plays such an important role in the story means that GoT's (lack of a) depiction of the Starks and their warging capabilities depresses me, so this is my answer.


	6. Into the Mountains

They were at Lord Wull’s keep for several days longer than anticipated. It took quite a while for them to sort out supplies, graciously given by their large-bellied host, and even longer to prepare the riding party. Especially with their newfound two and four-legged companions. The woman Camildis made a fuss at her lord for making her march off to war without her husband. She also made a fuss at her husband, Einar, for being terrible at packing supplies.

Sansa imagined a lot of fussing would be in her future, too.

          The morning after the scene in the mead hall, Camil approached both Sansa and Jon. There was no anger in her this time, and she didn’t shout at them. She told them that Lord Wull had also provided a way to help the two of them. When they neared the kennels, Sansa had frozen in her tracks. Then she’d refused to go any closer. Camil hadn’t noticed, but Jon did and tried his best to calm her. Sansa appreciated her brother’s clumsy attempt to understand and comfort her.

          Camil returned to them holding two leads, each attached to a young elkhound.

          “A wild horse will buck the saddle,” she’d said, “but once it’s been ridden, he can accept a new rider without much problem. It’s the same with all beasts. Learning with a beast familiar with a warg wearing its skin is easiest, and ye both need to start practice as soon as possible.”

          Jon was the first to say something in the negative, even as he looked at the grey-furred hound that sat before him. Its tail wagged and kicked up a cloud of dust, but the creature didn’t seem to notice.

          “Forgive me, but I can’t; I should be preparin’ for our departure,” he told Camil.

          “The time is now, Snow,” she replied. “It can’t wait.”

          When she turned to Sansa, Camildis’ expression grew somber. She held out the lead attached to a second hound, but Sansa wouldn’t take it.

          “Dogs are easiest to bond with, because they live with men all of the time. This one was raised by men to be loyal. It won’t hurt you,” Camil said.

          “I can’t.”

          It didn’t matter that neither dog looked like Ramsay’s pack—his girls, he called them—it was enough that they were hounds, were likely trained to hunt already. That they would howl to announce their quarry. And it would rip right through her as though she were little more than a fine gauze. And what would happen if she heard it outside the privacy of her own tent? Sansa knew she was being stubborn; she didn’t care.

          It took minutes of patient coaxing on Jon’s part to get Sansa to share why, exactly, she didn’t want to go near the kennels. Near a pair of hunting dogs. He had seen her at home with a mess of direwolf pups, so this fear of hers was a new development for him. He had known that she’d fled Winterfell, fearing for her life. But Sansa hadn’t told him about the hounds. The chase.  

          She told him about the Bastard’s Girls, and the women who had been Ramsay’s playthings before her. Jon was horrified. His disquiet made his face even paler. He couldn’t look at her. Sansa noticed that Jon would break off eye contact to stare at the ground, resolute. When she looked to Camil, Sansa saw the surprise and horror in the other woman’s features. Camil’s voice was calmer, quieter, after that revelation.

          When the clanswoman realized they were drawing an audience—several wildlings and clansmen had obviously heard the gossip about wargs among their guests—she scolded the lot of them for gawking. There was a kind of perverse joy, Sansa had realized, in watching Camil talk down to men her age or older as though they were naughty children. She felt better. The sight of middle-aged men retreating with haste amused her, their expressions clouded with guilt. Then the older woman bid them to follow her to the godswood to try and find some privacy.

          Jon left Sansa’s side to follow Camil. Sansa reluctantly followed behind him. In the shadow of the enormous heart tree, Camil had them sit comfortably against the roots while the dogs sat close by. They were nearer to the older woman, much to Sansa’s secret relief. Then, Camil asked Jon and Sansa to relax, giving instructions that they close their eyes and “empty” their minds. Sansa had sat until her legs cramped and the shadows lengthened around them.

          She wasn’t sure what emptying her mind would look like. Her thoughts remained, stubborn and persistent, and she couldn’t banish the feeling of shame and unease that sat heavy in her stomach.

          Nothing happened.

          They had wasted hours like this. All in all, it had been a terribly disappointing afternoon. When Sansa returned to her tent that night, she was exhausted and all but collapsed into her bed. There was no raucous barking from the kennels, and Petyr Baelish stayed away.

          She didn’t dream that night, either. Thankfully.

 

*

 

          After another day of failing to do anything at all under the weirwood tree, there were no further excuses to delay their departure. Lord Wull sent several of his best men with them, to escort their party to the Bay of Ice safely. The mountain paths were treacherous, he warned, and more so as winter approached. They could use men who knew the lay of the land to navigate. He promised to join them at their rendezvous point between the Wolfswood and Deepwood Motte. They would have the Norreys and the rest of the clans joining them, if they could judge by the agreeable responses they’d already received by raven.

          It was slow going through the frosty mountains, despite their expert guides; they had stopped twice that morning and three times around midday. The last stop had taken more time than any of the others. They’d had to clear away part of the path where it had become impassible after a recent landslide. Rocks and shale and a splintered mess of trees formed an impressive barrier. They’d needed a long time to clear the way. Sansa felt a little guilty at remaining on her horse while Jon got down to help, but she had none of the upper body strength that he did. Petyr and Ser Davos remained ahorse, too, so she didn’t feel quite as bad.

          Just looking at Jon heave some of the biggest boulders made Sansa sweat. The rocks made ugly sounds as they skittered down the hillside, stretching out to claw echoes from the mountains around them. It felt like ages before the noises stopped, and the valley quieted once more.

          Petyr and Ser Davos were nearest to Sansa’s gelding, and they spent most of the morning and midday discussing the northern lords they could gather to their cause. Sansa listened to them discussing the number of mounted knights they could expect from the Vale, then numbers of lightfoot troops and archers. The numbers grew so high that they seemed more like writing on a page than real men. She thought of the troops that Ramsay had talked about, and how many made up the Bolton forces.

 _It’s more than numbers_ , she thought. _These are men fighting, and they won’t behave like numbers on a slate_. Stannis Baratheon had superior numbers during the siege of King’s Landing, but the Lannisters surprised him with wildfire. He’d had more men when he marched on Winterfell, too. _We need more than men to win a battle_.

          Camil’s wolf scouted ahead while she rode nearer to Jon. The hounds were bound to her, so they ran alongside Camil’s nut brown mare through the scraggly patches of grass. They were young enough that they would often pause to sniff something or squat and relieve themselves to mark territory. If either paused for too long, Camil would shoot them a look and they’d return dutifully, looking almost apologetic.

          “What are their names?” Jon asked.

          “His name is Ruan,” Camil answered. She pointed at the male, who was jauntily weaving through the hooves to rejoin them. It was as if he’d heard his name and knew it meant he could show off. “And she’s called Thistle.”

          The older woman nodded in the direction of the smaller elkhound. Thistle’s fur was the lighter of the two, although she had the same dark muzzle as her brother, the same deep brown eyes. “Stepped into a thistle patch as soon as she was old enough to walk.” Camil laughed.

          Sansa overheard them, but she’d been focused on watching the hounds. They had drifted further back, closer to Sansa’s horse than it preferred. The gelding snorted nervously when they got too close.

          _It’s not so bad with just the two of them_ , she told herself. _And we’re away from the kennels. And they don’t look like Ramsay’s girls_.

          His hounds were all female, all named after a woman who’d given a merry chase, her husband had told her. Helicent, Alison, Jez, Kyra, and Maude…and… She thought about it some more. Ramsay’d had more, she was sure of it. He’d bragged about those awful hounds to her time and again; she remembered it so clearly. It was a long list of names. But Theon—when he was Reek—said that Helicent and…Red Jeyne, was it? That they were two good dogs in a pack of bitches.

          For whatever that was worth.

          The greying flint hills stretched on, peppered here and there with tall watchtowers that gave no indication of life as they passed. No warnings, no greetings. Nothing. Their mountain guides appeared to expect this, but all the same, Sansa found them unnerving. She’d be glad when they found themselves out of the mountains.

 

*

 

          Later in the day, it began to snow.

          At first, Sansa was delighted. They were light flakes on a brisk wind, coating her outstretched tongue and the tip of her nose. It was soft, and pure, like the surprise snowfall in the Eyrie. She working all morning on the snow castle resembling Winterfell—the Winterfell she had grown up in—before Robin had kicked it down. The memory of that day made her grow somber.

          She thought of her Aunt Lysa, spittle on her aunt’s lips from her fury. The cold air from outside the moon door gushing upward and clawing at her cheeks, her hair. Their skirts snapping in the wind. _I should be grateful I’m still here to see the snow_ , she thought. She’d thought her aunt really would push her through that horrible moon door. If not that day, then soon enough. Her time spent in the Eyrie felt impossibly long ago. Sweetrobin’s petty cruelties and even Aunt Lysa’s jealous rage faded and paled against the canvas of Ramsay’s depravity. Her memory of the Eyrie was laden with guilt. With sorrow. Heavier than the snow that, landing wetly, began to bow the tree limbs around them.

          The winds got colder around them. Each brisk gust brought grey clouds and more snow with them. Soon it covered Sansa. Her cloak, her gloves, and the braid of hair that crept out from under her hood all had a wet layer upon them. Nothing could escape the flakes that drifted lazily downward. Even when covered in a white, soft layer of snow, Sansa felt calmed by it. Despite the cold that pinched her cheeks, her nose. When she glanced behind her, Ser Davos looked older. The snow covered his grey whiskers, and it gave him an especially miserable appearance.

          Petyr had his cloak wrapped around him but wore a playful expression. When their eyes met, he winked at her. His head tilted back, and his eyes closed, briefly, while he extended his tongue to catch errant snowflakes. _Is he doing this to get my attention_? She wondered. If so, he’d succeeded. But she worried who else’s attention might be drawn to his antics. Sansa looked ahead of her; no one was paying any attention at all. When her gaze returned to Petyr ahorse behind her, he had stopped, his tongue darting back into his mouth. His lips quirked into a smile, before he pulled his cloak more tightly around him.

          “Are you enjoying the snow, my lady?” Petyr asked.

          “Very much so, Lord Baelish.” Even though she feigned formality out here in the open, Sansa thought about what might happen later, should he come to her tent. There, she could become very informal. Her mind raced with ideas.

          “If only there were enough snowfall for you to give your castle another go,” he told her, “then you could build another without fear of children throwing tantrums.”

          “Would you help me build it?” she asked.

          “Nothing would please me more, my lady.” Petyr’s tongue darted out and licked his lips, and his breath melted the dashes of white that had collected in his mustache. Now only his beard had snow in it, next to a few rogue silver hairs.

 _He wishes to come into my castle_ , she thought, amused. _We shall see about that_. But she had the feeling that if she told him she preferred to be a widow first, he would wait. Petyr Baelish was nothing if not patient.

          The snowfall never grew too heavy, although their guides warned that the weather could worsen at any time. Winter’s approach was an uncertain thing, they all agreed. Sansa watched the white flakes gather on their beards, but they took no notice.

 _They don’t look half as miserable as Petyr and Ser Davos do_ , she thought. These were northerners; they cut their milk teeth on the fruits of a land tougher than they were. They’d survive in conditions far worse than this. The mountains could harbor a blanket of winter storm clouds for days or even weeks, jockeying the clouds back and forth as they gathered in intensity.

          That wasn’t the case this time, thankfully. When the clouds had finally left and taken the snowstorm with them, night had fallen. Grey fingers raked across the tops of the mountains almost resentfully, dragging their winds and white snowflakes behind them in protest at having to move along.

          In their place, a thousand stars looked down at their party silently. Coldly. The moon was barely more than a sliver, perched as it was near distant peaks, but it looked bigger to Sansa, somehow. The mountains became black obelisks that stretched skyward in the night, both in front and behind them. Ancient-looking and terrifying.  

          Camil’s wolf Chaika had brought back two rabbits some hours ago, one right after another, presenting them to the older woman to be cleaned. Then the wolf had gone with some of the men to lead them to more game. Sansa watched the wolf stalk proudly out of the camp, then looked to Camil. The older woman wasn’t idle; she was busy skinning one of the rabbits, her slender fingers pulling the hide from the carcass like it was little more than pulling fingers out of a glove.

          The clansmen returned after a short while with a squat little goat carcass. Sansa watched them lay it out. It had short grey fur and stubby little horns in life, but their guides were already making quick work of dressing it. The goat was small and looked like a kid, not yet fully grown. _Did they kill it_? She wondered, feeling sad but not quite sure why. She had seen humans killed in front of her and felt nothing. She had seen bodies that had been mutilated. Flayed. _I have seen worse than this_ , she thought.

          When they began to skin it, Sansa had to look away. One of the men claimed to have found its little body half-buried under an inopportune rock, and she felt oddly relieved. She couldn’t look in that direction the entire time it took to carve it up for supper. It was easier to focus on tending the fire nearest to her, and hope that no one spoke to her until it was over.

          “I can show you how to do it, you know. How to hunt, how to clean game.”

          Sansa jumped.

          “Oh! Well…I—thank you, but…I wouldn’t know the first thing about it,” Sansa replied. Camil’s offer took her by surprise. She was being honest; she knew nothing about hunting game, even though her lord father had gone hunting on occasion. He’d discussed it with her brothers at dinner more than once, shared stories of hunts he’d been on with Robert Baratheon in the Vale. Her lord father had taken the older boys out into the Wolfswood with Ser Rodrik and Jory, she remembered, albeit infrequently.

          That had always been something reserved for the male Starks…and Jon and Theon, of course. Their father had insisted upon it, saying it was just as necessary as learning how to wield a sword or a bow and arrow. It hadn’t mattered to Sansa then; she’d preferred sewing, even with Septa Mordane as a constant companion. Arya, when she didn’t manage to sneak off, had always been more troublesome to deal with than any stitch.

          Arya. What she wouldn’t give to see that small face, smudged with dirt and framed by strands escaping from her dark braids. That obstinate mouth. Sansa dreamt about her still, and the last time they had seen each other, they’d fought. She’d been such a brat, and she regretted it.

          “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Camil told her. Her words pulled Sansa out of those memories, though she was loath to leave them behind.  

          “I am not,” Sansa replied, indignant. She didn’t meet the older woman’s eyes, and instead fiddled with some sticks and kindling near the wood pile.

          “Girls are taught to hunt up here in the mountains, same as the boys.”

          “Do they really?” Sansa supposed she shouldn’t be surprised by that. Lord Umber had boasted once that he taught each of his daughters how to hunt. Some of the other minor noble houses did the same.

          “Aye, they do,” Camil said. “But that’s because life is harder here…leaner, too, especially when winter comes. You’re a highborn lass, I know, but you’re out here now. You’ll be out here tomorrow and the day after that; it might make all the difference if you need to survive.”

 _But I have always needed to survive_ , Sansa thought. And yet…she thought about her escape from Winterfell, jumping with Theon into a snowbank from atop the walls. She remembered running into frozen woods and what seemed almost certain death. Then the river, and her legs so numb she could barely walk. Her skirts frozen around her and knocking into her knees. She remembered when the songs of the Bastard’s Girls grew louder in her ears. The pounding of her own heart had competed with the cries of Ramsay’s hounds in her ears.

          Sansa hadn’t possessed a clue as to what to do. Her helplessness and fear had made her chest feel tight. Her breath frozen even before she’d jumped into the river. Certain that she would fall over and be captured. Or be killed. The former was a fate worse than death. If they had made it far enough into the woods to lose their pursuers, Sansa would’ve had to rely on Theon to survive. That possibility had been too distant; Brienne had saved them and killed the Bolton men after her and Theon. Brienne wasn’t here, though. Nor was Theon. _I have Jon_ , she thought. _And Petyr_. But she doubted that Littlefinger knew anything at all about surviving in the wilderness—and a cold, wintry wilderness at that.

          “I can’t even catch any game,” Sansa told Camil. She made herself think about the older woman’s offer. If she were ever in a position like that again… “Father never taught me the first thing about hunting.”

          Her mother had never gone hunting, certainly. If Arya had ever asked to go hunting in the Wolfswood with their brothers, it blended into all of the other times that Arya had wanted to do as they did. Be it practicing with sword or bow, riding, or learning how to hunt, Arya had wanted to do it all. Sansa remembered the way she would stalk into their room, huffing and red-faced, each time their lord father or Ser Rodrik had denied her.

          When she pulled herself out of that stream of memory, Sansa looked over and saw that Camil sat on the grass, her feet stretched out to the tongues of campfire flames. _How can she stand to sit so close_? Sansa wondered. She could feel the heat of it on her back, and she was over by the woodpile; she could only imagine how hot it would feel, flames nearly licking the older woman’s boots and feet. Camil’s eyes were on her.

          “You’re a warg; you can hunt in their skin…so long as you only hunt beasts.”

          “What do you mean?” Sansa was confused.

          “Never hunt a human in an animal’s skin, or eat human flesh,” Camil said. Her dark eyes were serious, and the laugh lines at their corners made her look weary.

          Guarded.

          “There are tales older’n me about wargs losing their minds after eating human meat, or of their wolves being able to wear _their_ skin.”

          Sansa felt the hairs rise on her forearms. She didn’t like the thought of that; to have a wolf or hound or some other animal walking around in her skin. _What would a wild animal do, in the skin of a man_? She didn’t want to think about it. But she couldn’t stop.

 _A wolf, wearing my face_.

          For a brief moment, Sansa pictured herself as she had always been in her reflection or in looking glass, but her eyes shone a pale yellow. Teeth bared and pointed like a beast. A wolf with a shield made of her own skin.

          She shuddered.

          Camil guessed her words had the desired impact, because she nodded and continued. “You’re a smart girl; I know you can remember those lessons easily.” The older woman crossed her legs, inspecting a cracked bead in a dark braid. “If you break those rules, and other folks find out…they’ll kill you. Highborn or no. Remember that.”

 

*

 

          That night, they ate well. They sat around the fires with boiled beans and goat roasted over a spit, with onions in a gravy made from the dripping. There wasn’t any meat left over, but Sansa guessed she shouldn’t be surprised; they had a fair number of people riding with them now. Their group had almost a dozen more men, not including the trackers who knew these mountain trails just as well as the backs of their own hands. And Camil, too. With her wolf and the two hounds.

          Theirs was a large enough party that Sansa felt it could attract the wrong sort of attention. The trails here were tricky and misleading at times, the mountain men had told them; outsiders like the Bolton bastard and his men would be waylaid easily. Spending the day inspecting them for herself, Sansa concluded that they were right about the trails. It was likelier that Bolton men would skirt the mountains altogether. If they came this way. They had no idea the Stark siblings had left Castle Black. Sansa hoped. It was only a matter of miles between safety in the mountains and being sighted by someone who could send word to Ramsay.

          She tried not to let herself think about it.

          Petyr had eaten quickly and excused himself out of weariness. She would’ve appreciated his company while she ate, but she could hardly say that to him in the moment—not with Jon here.

          Instead, Sansa listened to Jon and Ser Davos discuss the ravens that were sent to the other clans, the likelihood of other northern houses to join their cause. Now that they had the assured presence of both the Vale and the mountain clans, not to mention several thousand wildlings in fighting shape, Ser Davos was optimistic. He believed that houses with recently skinned family members would be less hesitant about joining them.

          Jon began to answer questions Ser Davos had on the lesser noble houses in the North. Which houses had cause for animosity with the Boltons, to start. He repeated the same information Sansa herself had memorized. They had both studied under Maester Luwin, after all, and with the same musty books. Jon didn’t think it wise to send a raven to House Ryswell, because they had close ties with the Boltons. A Ryswell had married Roose Bolton, but she had died before giving him a legitimate heir. Then he’d married Lady Walda, who Sansa thought was sweet but more than a bit dim. While they discussed the Lady Hornwood, House Forrester, House Tallhart, and the others, Sansa sensed movement in the corner of her eye.

          One of the hounds, the female, had crept closer to her campfire. Her dark eyes were hopeful. Thistle, Sansa remembered. She plucked a sliver of goat meat from her bowl and held it gently between thumb and forefinger, lowering her arm beside her. _It’s mostly gristle and fat_ , she told herself. She wouldn’t eat it anyway.

          Sansa watched a curved tail wag gently. The hound inched forward until she could pluck the morsel from Sansa’s fingers. Instead of snatching the meat from her, Thistle took it delicately. Then devoured it.

          The dog crept forward to lick the grease from her fingers. It almost tickled.

          “Thistle,” she said, voice quiet. As though she were testing the name on her lips. The hound licked her hand, tail wagging. Some part of her relaxed, though she was only dimly aware of it. _This isn’t so bad_ , she thought.

          “Good girl.” Sansa tried not to think of Lady, but it was difficult. She did her best to push away those thoughts. And the heavy, constricting feeling in her chest.

          Thistle gave her a look, head tilted to the side ever so slightly, before she settled her warm body next to Sansa. When she couldn’t eat any more, Sansa put her bowl on the ground and let the hound empty it for her. _It’ll be easier to clean that way_ , she reasoned. That was all.

          “Snow!” a voice called.

          The redheaded wildling, Tormund, was calling to her brother. Jon inclined his head towards the older man, when Ser Davos broke off his speech.

          “Come drink with us,” Tormund said. “Sour goat’s milk. You’ve had it before; it’ll help you go to bed with a warm belly.” Some of the mountain clansmen were already imbibing, and doing so with increasing enthusiasm.  

          “I don’t need help sleeping,” Jon answered. His tone was diplomatic, expression serious, but Sansa could see the edges of a smile at his lips. Ser Davos had an amused look as he watched the exchange.

          “One cup of this will make you forget that you don’t have a woman waiting for you in your tent,” Tormund said. He gave Jon a mad grin. “And it will help these sorry shits remember that you’re a man, not some kind of god.”

 _What could he mean by that_? She wondered.

          Jon shot the wildling a look. “Is there a reason you want to get me drunk?” he asked.

          “Watching you hold your head and complain tomorrow morning would be amusing.” The redheaded wildling shrugged, as though it were obvious. He grinned as if he could already see it. Ser Davos snorted.

          “Another night,” Jon promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this on April Fool's Day ended up being a coincidence, promise.


	7. The Stars Come Out Like Salt

When Sansa returned to her tent that night, it didn’t take long at all for Petyr to slip in after her. She wasn’t exactly surprised; he made sure to stay away for the last few nights. There hadn’t been any opportunities for them to have a private conversation, let alone anything else. Like whatever it was that they did.

          If she were being honest with herself, Sansa would admit that she had missed seeing that look of his. It was an eager expression, she thought, but self-assured. That appearance of calm when he was anything but. Petyr had had perfect posture that night, with pale limbs that grew increasingly dim in the light of candles burning low. She felt a warmth spread through her at the very thought of it.  

          “I was wondering when we’d get a chance to speak alone,” Petyr said. He brushed off his cloak in a lazy motion.

          “Are you sure this is wise?” she asked. There was a thread of caution in her hushed voice.

          There were more people in the camp, now. Camil, too, was another concern. Would she try to spy on them? What could a warg see, when the shadows grew too dark for human eyes? Sansa thought of those honey-colored eyes and their fierceness. If Camil saw something strange, she would tell Jon. Sansa was certain of it. What she and Petyr did in the confines of her tent was undoubtedly strange; Sansa couldn’t find the words for it.

          “Nothing ever seems wise in the moment,” Petyr answered. He shrugged slightly as he tugged off his dark gloves. “As for me, the wisest move is often an ambitious one.”

          “What do you mean?”

          “I don’t possess any gifts that reveal which move will be the wisest to make,” Petyr said. He tossed his gloves aside and began unfastening the hooks and eyelets on the front of his cloak. “More often than not, I trust my instincts and choose the ambitious move.”

          “And how is that working out for you?”

          “It was a move that led me here,” Petyr replied. “To you.”

          _It led to you dropping me off at the foot of Ramsay’s bed_ , she thought. A current of anger bubbled up inside her, and she tried to push it away.

          “What is it you hope to do here tonight, Petyr?” Sansa asked instead.

          “To have a stimulating conversation for once today,” he said, the corners of his mouth turned upward in amusement. “How goes your work with this Camil woman?”

          She knew that he’d ask about it, sooner or later. He expected to hear something positive, she was sure. But there wasn’t anything to say.

          “Nothing’s happened,” she confessed. “I’ve been sitting and even breathing exactly the way she wants me to, for hours on end, and…nothing.” It was the same with Jon too, but she didn’t volunteer that information.

          “Nothing will come of nothing, so try again,” Petyr said simply. His expression was amused. He said it so casually, as though she need only shrug her shoulders to make it happen.

          “I’ve been trying.” Sansa felt some of her frustration creep into her voice. How was she supposed to know what to do, when Camil said no more than a few words on stupid things like how to sit and breathe? Her mind never emptied, and she never found herself in the body of a wolf, or a hound, or anything else for that matter. There was nothing at all outside the stifling air of her boredom, her wandering thoughts.

          “Only one of two things can happen, Sansa: either you are a warg, and you’ll succeed, or you’re not one.” Petyr shrugged. “If it’s the latter, then this woman won’t be helpful to you.”

          “And what if I am one, and I fail?”

          “Impossible,” he said. Petyr dismissed the notion with a shake of his head. “You’re far too persistent for that.”

          “Is that what I am?” Sansa’s tone was dry as she watched Petyr remove his cloak, letting the heavy material fall to the ground.

          “Without a doubt,” Petyr replied. “You’re far more resourceful and resilient than others might believe. You survived for years in King’s Landing when others surely would have perished.”

          That sounded quite like a compliment. Sansa raised an eyebrow and shot him a look. His smile only widened.

          “Is this why you wanted to speak with me?” she asked, mildly. “To pay me compliments?" She knew that wasn’t all; that was never _all_ that Petyr Baelish wanted. There would always be more.

          “I’d intended to ask what, exactly, becoming a warg entails.”

          “It’s boring,” Sansa complained.

          “Are they helping with your…dreams?” Petyr’s expression sobered a bit. He looked wary, like he had seen something. After she’d already embarrassed herself with the hounds. She felt curious about his reaction, and what she looked like while dreaming—or warging? —but she also felt guilty.

          “I haven’t had any wolf dreams, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. It was the truth, and she was glad of it. Sansa had a feeling that, should she take Camil’s wolf again, intentional or not, the older woman would knock her senseless. Or worse.

          “That’s good…that’s very good.”

          Sansa regarded him curiously. _Did I really look so terrible when I was dreaming that night_? She wondered.

          “Did it frighten you, to see me that way?” she asked instead. He arched an eyebrow and flashed her a bemused smile.

          “You behaved strangely, that’s all,” he said. “I tried to wake you, but you wouldn’t; I thought better of running out of your tent in a panic.”

          “I appreciate that,” she replied drily. Sansa knew that he did it more out of a sense of self-preservation than anything. Jon would strangle him if he found her here, in a state of undress and unable to wake, and with Petyr in the tent.

          “I stayed to watch over you,” he admitted, after a moment.

          “Did you?”

          “For a time, yes.”

          “When did you leave?” She was curious how long he had stayed and watched her fitful dreaming. Did her hands twitch like paws, when she slept? Had she growled at him?

          “I left when you settled,” Petyr said. “It was shortly before dawn.”

          Almost the entire night. Sansa wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

          “Were you afraid, when you saw me acting like that?”        

          “Fear is information,” Petyr replied. “I never ignore it.”

          That didn’t quite answer her question. He never would’ve answered that question, had it come from someone else. Sansa knew he hated discussing his weaknesses. _But I deserve to know_ , she thought. _And he knows that, too_.

          “So…what do you know about skin changers, and wargs?” Sansa asked instead. She was curious, especially because he grew up in her mother’s household. Maybe he had read something…or maybe he’d heard stories about them alongside her mother.

          “Precious little, unfortunately.”

          “I see.” Her hopes were immediately dashed.

          “Too much has been lost or obscured over time, perhaps,” Petyr suggested. His expression was apologetic. “The few tales I’ve heard with wargs in them…end very poorly for the warg in question.”

          Sansa wished she could say she was surprised by that.

          “I remember one tale…” He trailed off, expression becoming thoughtful for a moment. “It said, for a warg to change into a wolf, they had to go out into the night and remove their clothes, then hide them in a secret place—under a certain rock, and the like,” he said.

          She raised an eyebrow. _Nonsense_ , she thought.

          “And if anyone stole their clothes, they couldn’t change back into a man again.”

          “That sounds ridiculous,” she replied.

          “Of course it does, but how much of a tale about wargs or skinchangers contains the whole truth? Is it the wargs themselves that tell the tales?”

          She paused at that. _I suppose not_ , she thought. _It’s the people who kill them; they go on and tell it_.

          “I have faith in you, Sansa,” he said. “Do not give up so easily.” Petyr stepped forward into the space between them, brushing a gentle thumb against her cheek.  He leaned in and cupped her cheek, before giving her a brief kiss. She felt his lips linger against hers. She felt his other arm encircle her waist, a warm pressure at the small of her back, and she fought the instinct to shut her eyes.

          “What do you want, Sansa?” he asked, when they pulled away. “What can I do that will make you happy?”

          She took a moment to think about it.   

          “I had an idea for something I wanted to try, actually,” she admitted. “Would you be willing to play a game with me, Petyr?”

          “It depends upon the nature of the game, I suppose.” His expression was curious.

          “Well…part of it is a surprise,” Sansa told him. “But I want you to remove your doublet and tunic and lie on the bed. Can you do that for me?”

          Petyr quirked an eyebrow at her. Instead of a response, positive or negative, he began to unfasten the ties on his doublet. She could sense his curiosity. Sansa could almost see his mind as it sifted through everything—anything—for clues about what she wanted to do. What she was going to do.   

          “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ then?” Sansa asked. She felt a bit smug, watching his thin fingers tug at the laces and ties on his clothing.

          “If this will make you happy, then yes.”

          Sansa let him continue. Petyr worked through the remaining laces on his doublet; it was a deep green with threads of light brown that shot through it like veins. He watched her on and off as he removed it, seemingly unable to keep the satisfied smile from his lips. When his doublet slid to the ground, Petyr didn’t seem to notice. He only had eyes for Sansa. Clad in his grey tunic, Sansa thought it looked so dark in the evening light that it was almost black.

          “Take that off as well,” Sansa told him. She knew she sounded a bit impatient, but she didn’t care.

          “Yes, my lady.” Petyr’s lips quirked upward in amusement. He seemed quite willing to follow her lead and see what she had in mind. When Petyr stood before her, clad only in breeches and boots, she smiled.

          _He looks handsome like this_ , she thought. _Even with the scar_.

          “Would you lie back on the bed for me?” It wasn’t really a request; the game couldn’t continue otherwise.

          Petyr looked amused. He complied without any witty remarks or complaints. After he removed his boots, he lay atop the heavy furs that covered the bed. “How is this?” he asked.

          “Perfect.” Sansa watched him stretch his pale limbs, before cushioning his arms behind his head. Every move seemed a performance with him. The position let him maintain better eye contact, but that wasn’t what she wanted.

          “Now…do you trust me?” she asked.

          It was a loaded question and they both knew it. Sansa wasn’t sure that Littlefinger trusted anyone at all. But what about Petyr—here and now—in the privacy of her tent?

          “I trust you.” His expression was open, unguarded, and his eyes shone up at her.

          “Good. I want you to close your eyes, and keep them closed,” she said. “I want to surprise you.” Sansa had been thinking about this ever since it had begun snowing. Seeing Petyr, playfully catching snowflakes on his tongue, had opened her to a progressive chain of thoughts and ideas. Perhaps they could try some of them now.

          “Is this a good surprise?” he asked. His tone was amused.

          “I think so,” Sansa replied. “You’ll have to find out, though, won’t you?”

          Petyr smiled and shut his eyes, but after a moment, he opened one eye ever so slightly to peek at what she was doing.

          “Keep your eyes closed,” she commanded. She felt like a brat, but that thought was quickly discarded.

          Petyr obeyed her. This time, he didn’t open his eyes. Sansa took a moment to look at him, to enjoy this small victory that was his willingness to try this with her. His pale limbs stood in contrast to the pile of dark furs. There was something delightful, she decided, about remaining clothed while Petyr lay before her almost naked. His chest and arms were prickled with gooseflesh. 

          Sansa gathered a small bowl and left the tent. Even without the threat of more clouds, more snow, the air was still cold. Despite not having much snow underfoot, Sansa would make do with what she could gather. She began to pack snow tightly together. Cramming a sizable amount of tightly-packed snow into the bowl, she decided that was enough.

          She could do a lot with a bowl full of snow.

          A warmth spread through her as her excitement grew—despite having near-frozen fingers, as well. When she reentered the tent, Petyr was in the exact same spot, eyes shut tightly. Working efficiently, Sansa placed the bowl at the foot of the bed and pinched off a bead of ice. He said nothing. She imagined he knew she was there. Neither of them spoke.

 _Just a little longer_ , she thought to herself. Her thoughts seemed impossibly loud. The pounding of her heart was too loud in her ears. Sansa hardly dared breathe. She had a feeling his eyes would fly open at any moment and the surprise would be ruined.

          Taking a moment, Sansa ran a warm hand down the length of his arm, and she felt him shiver under her touch. Before he could adjust to the sensation, she used the ice in her other hand on him. She pressed it to the base of his neck ever so gently.

          “Ah…” Petyr let out a little gasp of surprise. His back arched, and his head tilted back, instinctively trying to move away from her icy touch.

          “Stay still, and keep your eyes closed—if you want to get a reward, that is.”      

          “What kind of reward?” Petyr’s eyes stayed closed.

          “It’s a surprise,” Sansa replied. She felt a boldness come over her as he obeyed her. As he tried to still his limbs and their involuntary shivers.

          She rubbed the ever-shrinking ball of ice along his collarbone, in the hollow of his throat. There was a quiet noise. Petyr inhaled sharply, but she was undeterred. It was easy to move the melting ice, and keep it moving, so as not to numb him too much. She leaned down, pressing her lips to the cold, newly wet skin. This time he sighed.

          “Do you like this?”

          “Yes…” Petyr sounded like he was slightly surprised, but too caught up in the moment to care.

          Sansa kissed along his collarbone to his neck. Then she nibbled. It was not too hard a bite; just enough to bruise the skin. She felt his pulse under her lips and she bit down again.

          “Sansa, where did—?”

          She didn’t let him get the rest out. A fresh chunk of ice was suddenly rubbing against his lips, causing his words to bubble into incoherence. Sansa pushed it into his mouth, on his tongue.

          _I won’t let him ask_ , she thought. _Where I learned to want this_.

          Petyr let the ice sit heavy on his tongue. Before it could melt, she kissed him. Hard. Her tongue wormed its way into his willing mouth. She felt cold, too. It was a taste colder than mint. Her tongue felt numb as it dumbly dueled his own. She wanted to suck that sensation from his lips. When the ice melted, Sansa came up for air. Petyr’s eyes remained shut, though the tent in his breeches betrayed any effort on his part to look composed. She enjoyed watching him squirm.

          “Stay still, and keep your eyes closed,” Sansa said again. Firmly. She was smiling, even though he couldn’t see it.

          “As my lady commands.” Petyr’s tone was smug, almost teasing.

          In response, Sansa gathered another chunk of packed snow and rubbed it along the soles of his feet. She watched his nostrils flare, heard his soft cry, but she didn’t let up.

          “Oh, Sansa, that…” Petyr’s breath hitched as she rubbed the melting snow on the tops of his feet, then unlaced his breeches.

          She rubbed ice along his abdomen, his navel. He squirmed again. She placed kisses in their wake.

          “Do you like this, Petyr?” She spoke around a kiss to his navel.

          “Yes,” he said, his words ending in a soft moan.

          Sansa pushed the sweat-slicked hair back from his forehead, before dripping cold water there. A tapping sound was the only noise in the tent—the steady drip of water onto his forehead. She watched it stream down his face, his neck, before beading and clinging to the dark fur beneath him. The silver at his temples was dark with sweat, too.

          _That’s all I want_ , she thought to herself. _I want him to say it_. _To mean it_.

          She rubbed the melting ice in a ring around Petyr’s nipple, and he hissed in surprise. Then her mouth followed behind it, kissing and nibbling. Sansa heard him try and stifle another moan. Unlacing his breeches, she pulled them down enough to deliver two cool trails onto the top of each thigh.

          “Sweet…” he managed to get out, before his breath hitched again. “Sweetling…”

          How satisfying that was; she felt warmth spread through her. Sansa dribbled a wet trail along his inner thigh. He shuddered under her touch.

 _Delightful_.

          His legs continued to twitch, muscles tense, while his back arched. It sent echoes of pleasure through her.  _I did this to him_ , she thought, proudly. He was very aroused, if his exposed cock were any indication.

          “Look at me, Petyr,” she said, finally.

          When his eyes opened, his gaze met hers, he smiled.

          “I want you to show me,” she said. Her cheeks felt hot, even though her fingers were numb with cold.

          “Show you what?” His expression was curious, somewhat amused.

          Ramsay had always told her, in very specific terms, how to touch him. How to pleasure him. How to behave to bring him pleasure.  _This is different_ , a voice in her mind whispered. _I can stop whenever I want to_.

          “I want you to show me how to touch you,” Sansa said aloud.

          She grasped his cock at the base, stroking the underside briefly with her thumb. Petyr sighed in pleasure. He put a hand over hers, drawing them both down the length of him. The water on her hand warmed against his skin, and she felt their hands glide down him in a fluid motion. As she pressed a thumb to the head of his cock, Sansa felt his legs twitch against her arm and the bed. When her thumb stroked the length of his slit the reaction was immediate. One of Petyr’s legs jerked and bounced, and his back arched again.

          “Stay still,” she said.

          “Sansa, that—” Petyr’s breath caught in his throat. He grabbed at her other hand with his free one as if to hold him down. The hand over hers moved them in tandem more quickly.

          She felt a wetness between her thighs, an itch that grew with every stroke. Her nipples were stiff in the cool air of the tent.

          “Should I stop here?” she asked. Her tone was light while she teased him.

          “No, you can’t—”

          “I can if I wish it,” Sansa said. She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Maybe I do wish it.”

          “Please don’t,” Petyr begged her. There was an undercurrent of desperation in his voice.

          “Ask me, then.” She didn’t still her hand, but she would if he refused. It would drive him mad.

          “Please. Sansa…bring me over.” He panted in frustration and need, grabbing at the furs beneath him.

          “If you want it that badly...” she trailed off. His cock twitched in her hand, some clear drops weeping from the head. Sansa kept going. She cupped his balls, then squeezed them lightly.

          “I do. Please…” He swallowed thickly. Petyr’s brow held a sheen of sweat. He licked his dry lips, but that was all that he could do, really.

          When he came, a moan ribboned out of him, filling the air. Sansa half-considered putting a hand over his mouth to stifle him. He was louder than Ramsay, certainly. Her husband had never so much as uttered a single syllable when he took his pleasure, though his jaw had worked like there was an insect rattling around in him.

          She kept stroking him while he came, while he shuddered violently against her. Sansa realized she liked this—watching him as the tension left his body. When even the echoes of his pleasure had subsided, Petyr lay panting against the bed. He smiled at her.

          “Was that enjoyable?” she asked. As though she didn’t already know the answer to that.

          “Of course,” he breathed. “Thank you, Sansa.”

          “You put on quite a performance.”

          “Did I?” His curiosity seemed genuine.

          “Oh, yes. I suppose snow is a rarer opportunity in the south,” Sansa mused.

          “Much rarer; only during winter proper.”

 _Southerners will have plenty of opportunities soon enough_ , she thought. _Winter is almost here_. When Petyr seemed to recover, Sansa undid the rest of the laces that held her dress in place. It fell to the floor. The way his eyes lit up, seeing her this way, touched her.

          “Can you do one more thing for me, Petyr?”

          “Whatever could that be?” he asked mildly. He moved to sit up on the bed. As soon as he did, Sansa moved closer and kissed him. Hard. She tried to convey what she wanted him to do to her. With her.

          This time she took his hand and drew it to her cunt, hoping he could feel its heat. The slickness of her arousal. Sansa felt his middle finger trace the length of her slit, dipping down. Her hips arched into the motion and his finger entered her more deeply.

          “Like that,” she breathed.

          Petyr’s thumb sought out her spot to rub, familiar enough to him by now. This time it was her turn to let out a small gasp. He smiled at her. Sansa straddled his lap, fully aware of what it might do to him. She ground herself into the touch.

          “Don’t stop.” She tried to keep her voice calm, in control. As though he couldn’t feel her thighs twitching wildly against him. They closed around his hand, almost like a vice, as he touched her.

          He leaned forward to kiss her. She tried to return it, but all she could do was moan into his mouth. Petyr’s thumb was relentless—this was exactly what she wanted in this moment. What she needed. Sansa arched into him.

          Then, without warning, Petyr shifted and pushed Sansa on the bed. His head delved between her thighs. A moment later, Sansa felt her back arch against the furs. She was the one gripping them tightly, now. The one trying to hold back a string of moans. Sounds of her pleasure threaded the air of a tent that already smelled like sex.

          “Gods, Petyr…” Sansa’s eyes fluttered closed.

          She needed this. Her hand gripped his hair tightly, unwilling to let him part from her. She felt his tongue circle her nub, pressing down against it. Hard. Right now, she could not let go of him if she tried. Not that she wanted to.

          He spent long minutes in that position. Sansa felt warmth spread to the bottoms of her feet, and they curled in pleasure. She saw the motions of his head, felt his other hand squeeze her thigh. She felt him in every place he touched. His fingers curled inside her, rubbing against that bone. A loud sigh of pleasure escaped from her lips. Sansa put a fist to her mouth to try and stifle the noises she couldn’t help but make.

          “Don’t stop,” she said again. Her voice cracked, and the air left her lungs when she felt him nibble at her clit.

          Petyr seemed to take her words very seriously. She felt that rising tension within her and echo down her thighs like waves. All she could do was grip his hair and utter a low moan.

          “Petyr…”

          He didn’t stop, even when the last shivers of her orgasm faded. He continued while she felt that flash of lightning down her thighs and tingle the soles of her feet. She felt sweat drip down her neck, down her sides. Her hair was slick against her forehead. All that mattered were the motions of Petyr’s fingers, his tongue.

          She came again. Sansa could only moan and grip the furs tightly. She didn’t even care if they were caught.

          He pulled away when her thighs relaxed around him.

          “How was that?” Petyr licked his lips in an exaggerated motion. Sansa mustered a lazy smile in response.

          When she scooted over on the bed, he took the hint and climbed in next to her. She would have to get up in a moment to put out the candles. For now, though, all Sansa wanted was this. Petyr pulled her into his arms and she followed. Her muscles felt something akin to a jelly that wobbled on a spoon.

          “That was very nice, Petyr.”

          The truth of it almost surprised her. Sansa didn’t know what it was like, to be held afterwards. At that thought, she felt a lump of emotion form in her throat. Leaning into him, she pressed her nose to the bare spot her direwolf seal had made. It would be a while before that hair grew back.

          Her amusement drew her out of those sadder, more complicated feelings. _This is something good_ , she thought. No matter what anyone else thought, not even Jon. _I feel safe here, even if it’s an illusion_. _None of us are safe at all_ , a voice whispered in her mind.

          Not if Jon was right.

          “Thank you,” Sansa told him.

          “For what?” He sounded amused.

          “For trying this with me.” It seemed obvious to her at least. This brothelkeep did seem to know quite a few tricks.

          “I’ve come to enjoy these new experiences with you,” he said. Petyr tilted his head and kissed her brow.

          “Really?”

          “Yes. You’re…quite creative.”

          “That sounds like a compliment, coming from a brothel-keeper,” Sansa replied.

          “It is,” he said, as though to assure her.

          They stayed that way for a while, until Sansa caught her breath and reluctantly got up to put out the candles. Some were down to stubs, but she refused to feel guilty for using them up.

           “May I stay here, tonight? My back will protest another night on the ground,” Petyr told her.

          “For tonight, yes.” She wanted him to be aware that this was an exception, not the rule. Petyr made an affirmative noise. Then she watched him burrow beneath the warm furs. When she snuffed out the last candle, Sansa returned to bed.

 _This is nice_ , she thought. Sansa felt Petyr’s arms encircle her once more. He encouraged her to lean against him, and his feet rubbed against hers as though to warm them. _His legs are shorter than mine_ , she thought to herself, amused. His feet had to stretch down to touch the tops of hers.

          “Your feet are colder than mine,” she said. “Stop it.”

          “As my lady commands.”

          She could almost see his self-satisfied grin. After another moment, he shivered against her, and pulled the furs closer around them.

          “Have you ever been a part of a military campaign before?” Sansa asked, changing the subject. She was curious; Jon had tried to warn her about the living conditions while on the road. Sansa didn’t have the heart to tell him that she could handle fare worse than Castle Black’s kitchens and the dirt.

 _Perhaps he should’ve warned Petyr instead_ , she thought to herself.

          “No,” he admitted. Sansa felt his shoulders move as he shrugged against her. “But won’t it make for an interesting experience?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, GRRM is vague when it comes to descriptions of wargs and warging in his novels. I mean INCREDIBLY vague. There’s a moment in ADWD that describes Bran as “a boy, looking at a crow, then suddenly a crow, looking at a boy,” more or less. When we get Bran’s POV, especially when he gets to the cave beyond the Wall, he can warg into things so easily because he’s just so super talented. Sansa’s narrative is defined by struggle in ways that Bran’s is not. And Arya’s, too, for that matter. What I mean by that is we get to see both of the Stark girls struggle to acquire new skills or adapt to their surroundings. Bran, despite his disability, doesn’t seem to struggle in that same way; he masters each step of becoming a warg and greenseer with relative ease. It’s just a matter of him getting over his internal struggle to embrace his powers and the fact that he has the ability to become a psychic sieve or a psychic nuke, depending on how he so chooses. So, really, GRRM leaves a lot up to interpretation, so I'm going to run with it.


	8. Cold Water, Cold Wine

They spoke for a while longer that night, about the traveling in their immediate future, the houses they would petition personally, and of the eventual confrontation with her maniacal husband.

          “We will retake your home from the Boltons,” Petyr had promised her. “The Vale’s forces will ensure it, or else die in the attempt.”

          She was too tired to try and figure out whether he was being genuine or not. Whether he believed they had a chance against the Bolton forces or not. She noticed Petyr said nothing of her baby brother, Rickon, or what Ramsay might’ve done to him by now. He may have only been trying to comfort her, by avoiding what could only be grim avenues of possibility for her little brother. _It may just be a lie, kindly meant_ , she thought. _But it has its limits._

          _His direwolf skin is on my floor_ , she thought. _That’s what Ramsay’s letter said_. _Poor Shaggydog. He must’ve fought so hard to keep Rickon safe_. Dimly, Sansa became aware that Petyr was speaking again; his assurances swam above her. There was a thread of certainty in his words. Or the appearance of it. It was good of him to say so aloud, though. In the comfort of her tent tonight, she would believe it. They had so few opportunities for such comforts now.

          “And after that, and we retake Winterfell?” she asked, her voice heavy with impending sleep.

          “I’ll give you everything.” He said it so matter-of-factly that she simply allowed it. Allowed herself to believe that he could do so. That he _would_ do so.

          “Mmm…” was all that she could say in response. She didn’t nod, for fear of dislodging his chin in her hair. Sansa fell asleep some time later, feeling Petyr’s arm still loose around her, the cocoon of warm furs, and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

 

*

 

          The next morning, Petyr was gone.

          Sansa felt a heavy fog still hanging over her, not quite fully awake, but she could still recognize his absence. Her hand stretched out beside her and probed the empty space his body had left behind. _It’s already cold_. A feeling of disappointment washed over her. _I have no reason to be sad,_ she chided herself silently. _I can’t let him be caught here by anyone in camp. Anyone._

          Morning was upon them. Sansa tried to shake off the last dregs of sleep; it was chilly enough to spur her into dressing more quickly, at least. When she exited the tent, Sansa was met with a world covered in hoarfrost. Crystals of ice glittered atop the grass, the tree limbs, and even clung to the canvas of the tents. Her breath clouded in the air before swirling into nothingness.

          _Maybe it will snow some more today_ , she thought to herself. There were only a few slivers of clouds against the brightening sky, she saw. It had been a clear morning yesterday, too, however. She paused for a moment, forgetting about the pinch of cold about her ears and nose, and watched as the sun grew fat and pinkened the horizon. Perhaps the weather would be milder once they reached the bay.

          She thought about it as she walked into the center of camp. Either way, the cold or the frost didn’t seem to bother most of their party’s traveling companions. The wildlings she saw were in the process of breaking down the camp or reviving a banked fire to cook on. Curses or laughter filled the air in equal measure. The clansmen that Sansa saw were working diligently, either tending to the horses or organizing packs. It surprised her, seeing the mountainfolk work alongside the wildlings with no apparent problems. They’d fought one another off and on for years. For centuries, even. But there was Camil, laughing at something said by a dark-haired man who wore a wildling’s skins. Some were helping a clansman pull out rations from their supplies.

 _I suppose what’s coming is as good a reason as any to get along_. She hoped that would last, as more northern lords joined their cause. If they joined at all. Sansa walked in the direction of the supplies, seeing if she could help—and maybe get something to eat in the process. 

 

*

 

          It took another two days before they traded the harsh mountain trails for the softer, sloping paths in the hills. A cloying fog met them there; tendrils that crept over the grassy knolls were low and wild as hares running rampant. Sansa appreciated the trees and their size, their implied safety in the deep wood. They weren’t like the short, stunted things that twisted out of the mountainsides. Those malformed roots and trunks seemed to threaten to come crashing down in a surprise rockslide.

          The green firs and stalwart pines were a breath of relief. By the time they’d left the mountains, the snow had long since melted. The only white Sansa could see for leagues was atop the impossibly high peaks belonging to mountains she couldn’t name. It still grew cold at night, though. Each night after that fleeting snowfall, Petyr had visited her. And every morning he had gone again.

          The Bay of Ice, they soon discovered, was aptly named. Harsh winds rolled off the waves and onto shore; she could see chunks of ice floating at each crest like so much flotsam. _This is a place that does not suffer visitors, not for very long_ , she found herself thinking. Sansa shivered. She heard brief, intermittent whistles of the wind over the shingle beach. The stones that made up the shoreline dipped down towards the water in a grey decline. Surely it would hobble any horse, should its rider be stupid enough to try to race anywhere down the shoreline.  

          “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tormund’s destrier had ridden up beside her own while she gazed out at the choppy sea.

          “It looks cold and difficult to cross,” Sansa answered truthfully. “I don’t know if I would call it ‘beautiful,’ exactly.”

          “It reminds me of home,” the redheaded wildling said. “Too much green here, south of the Wall.”

          “That will change soon enough, though, won’t it?” She glanced beside her at the man’s windblown beard, at his somber expression as he looked out over the water.

          “Aye, you’re right about that,” Tormund admitted. “When the deep snows come, we will have more to fear than the cold.”

          _There are things out there worse than winter_ , Sansa thought to herself.

          Their clansmen guides led them to a dock nearby, though it was empty of people or boats. A shabby-looking structure, the dock seemed meant to hold no more than a few fishing boats at most. The sea looked far too angry to hold anything smaller than a galley safely. As if to reinforce that notion, the waves made harsh slapping noises, loud and insistent against the pebbles of the beach.  

          Two or three of the men would return to their keep before marching south with the clans. The rest of them would accompany them to Bear Island, Sansa overheard. And after, they would ride to Deepwood Motte.

 

*

 

          A few hours after making camp, a cry went up from some of the wildlings. Tormund had been the first to spot it—a small fishing vessel, more of a fist floating on the horizon than anything else. A current of tension wound through them. Their party had stopped everything to watch its arrival, and Sansa felt her stomach drop when she realized just how small it was. She felt nauseous just thinking about it.

          _It’s only got the one mast_ , she thought bleakly. Sansa heard Jon declare that they should be cautious, lest it be Ironborn that they mistook for bears. Ser Davos disagreed; he thought the boat was too small to sail beyond the bay. They debated it for a few moments, but Sansa paid them little mind.

          All she could think about was the way the boat seemed to shudder atop the waves. Despite growing larger by the moment, Sansa was reminded of a crudely-made paper boat. She thought of the ones she used to race with Arya and Bran across the pool in Winterfell’s godswood. It would never feel like the same place again, not even if she and her brother succeeded in getting Winterfell back.

          When the boat drew close enough, Jon’s caution proved unnecessary. The bear of House Mormont sat sturdy and painted on the bow, its lips an almost gaudy sort of red. It looked too bright on a horizon of grey. The boat’s occupants were decidedly more modest in their dress, wearing tough skins and leathers to repel water. Ser Davos declared it a certain kind of fishing boat; he appeared more than a little smug about being right.

          Sansa paid him little mind and forgot what it was called almost immediately. _I don’t care what it’s called_ , she thought to herself, pursing her lips together. _Not unless it’s the kind that never sinks_.

          As the vessel reached the docks, its fishermen brought her in fluidly despite the tides, lashing ropes like they’d done it a thousand times. They probably had. Loose sea ice jostled the sides of the boat. If a person made a misstep and fell in, Sansa was sure they’d be dead by the time they reached the warmth of a hearth fire.

          “It will be all right.” A voice spoke softly to her left.

          Petyr had secured his horse and walked up beside her. Sansa was still numbly holding onto her gelding’s reigns, and her mount’s hot breath was almost reassuring.

          “What do you mean?” she asked.

          “I only meant that it won’t be too unpleasant, my lady,” Petyr replied. “It will be far shorter a voyage compared to your last one.”

          She looked over at him. Though he spoke to her, Petyr’s gaze was straight ahead, looking out over the waves. He wore a small, amused smile. One that reminded her of the rings on his fingers—it flashed for a moment and then was gone. She almost had a tart reply, but suddenly they were not alone. Petyr covered his mirth like a glove as Ser Davos approached them.

          “My lord…my lady,” Ser Davos acknowledged them both with a courteous nod.

          “Yes?” Petyr inclined his head, ever polite, but Sansa knew he only wore his courtesy to smother his annoyance.

“They’re suggestin’ we go aboard as quick as we can, lest we be caught in rougher seas than these. It’s been a bad season for ships, they tell me.” Ser Davos gestured to the waves behind him.

          Sansa looked at the bay, somewhat in disbelief. _This is how it looks when it’s calm_? She had no desire to see what kind of waters the fisherman deemed ‘rough.’

          “Let us go, then,” she said, as though it weren’t evident. Her stomach quailed, but she hoped it wouldn’t betray her on the short trip.

 

*

 

          It took half a day to reach Bear Island, and Sansa felt every moment of it acutely. At first, the men aboard were openly afraid of Camil’s wolf…and more than a little suspicious of the two hounds, Thistle and Ruan. They were dogs that walked in near-silence and onto an unsteady boat with perfect ease. It wasn’t normal; one Bear Islander muttered as much within Sansa’s hearing. She saw that they left the animals well alone.

          They gave Camil a wide berth as well, once they realized it was _her_ influence upon the animals. Sansa felt distracted by her own nausea, but she still noticed the way they avoided the older woman. The fishermen offered some of their own bread and boiled eggs to everyone, whatever they had on them for the trip. They even offered food to Sansa, and she was sure that she looked as green as she felt. Everyone except for Camil.

 _Warg_.

          Sansa heard someone say it, but couldn’t see who it was. She’d felt uncomfortably aware of her heartbeat, in those few long moments, before she realized they were talking about Camil. The older woman didn’t seem to mind being treated this way; she fed the dogs some strips of cured meat from her packs, but Chaika would touch nothing. Sansa felt a little better, seeing the wolf as ill at ease atop the waves as she was.

          When night had fallen the others had, almost uniformly, been able to find some measure of rest. Sansa couldn’t even attempt it; the boat rocked far too much for that. She didn’t know how they managed it. To close her eyes meant that her stomach would turn on itself. She was convinced it’d would be easy for her stomach to become disoriented in the blackness of sleep. Then there were the uneven tremors that vibrated through the wooden hull and down her bones. It mattered none that the crate she perched on was heavy, unmoving; it still sent echoes of everything down her arms and legs. She felt every little motion.

 _How can a person sleep when they’re violently moving_? She wondered. Sansa felt like an insect buzzing, or a tiny, equally frenetic thing, caught in a jar and tossed back and forth. The ship’s convulsions grew worse as it was met with more resistance. She felt—and saw—floating trunks of an ice floe drift closer. Then heard the crunch as the ice rammed against their bow before splintering around them.

 _The ship will be fine_ , Sansa reminded herself. Her heart hammered in her chest against the rhythm of the waves. She worried that the next black mound of ice would be all too solid. That it would smash the ship’s bow instead with such force that it broke _them_ apart.

          She had heard the screams upon the Blackwater, the night of Stannis’ attack. The night when the sky burned green as hundreds of men burned to ash aboard their ships. When the water itself was aflame. But she had never anticipated being in a similar position, screaming while a ship came apart around her.

          The vessel remained solid. Whole. So too would she.

          She didn’t lose the contents of her stomach, and that was all she’d hoped for, truly. Even if she still felt ill. Even if she had been forced to hold her knees in sickly reverence more than once. Her fingers were stiff and white-knuckled as she held herself. She wasn’t quite sure why it was a comforting position, but her hands would not unclench, even if she tried.

          “Are you all right?”

          Petyr had approached her soundlessly while everyone else was asleep. Save for the men guiding the ship. But even amongst them, some were off…somewhere, getting brief snatches of rest before they were needed once more.

          When Sansa didn’t answer him, she felt a touch to her arm. Petyr sat, somehow dignified, on a coil of rope beside her. He was a profile in the dark, but the touch to her arm was real. She felt his touch linger for a moment, before sliding down to cover her hand on her knee. His fingers felt hot against her skin.

          “Do you wish to go below deck?” he asked.

          “With the horses? No,” she replied, voice tight.

          The motion of the boat, combined with the overwhelming odor of horse, urine, and dung? She would vomit without question. Her mouth felt dry, and she felt her lips crack. When she licked them, she tasted…salt? Insulated as she was by crates and supplies, the sea spray still found her.

          “Can I do anything for you?” Petyr asked.  

          Sansa opened her mouth to insist that she needed nothing, to protest that others might see him. Jon might see him. But she stopped herself. _Jon’s not here_ , she thought. He’d probably gone to brood somewhere or to get a moment’s rest. Petyr was here, though. And he was trying to help her feel less miserable. That was something.

          “Stay with me a while?” she asked. Her voice sounded small in her own ears, and she half-thought that Petyr didn’t hear her.

          “Of course, sweetling.” His reply was soft. Gentle. His words became wind against the noisy waves.

 _I don’t know why he still calls me that_ , she thought. _I am not a sweet anything_. _Not anymore_. She didn’t correct him. It felt like a stupid thing to push back against, a name. Especially one spoken out of kindness. So she said nothing. Regardless, she didn’t want to open her mouth more than she had to…lest she court disaster.

          Sansa felt a light touch upon her back. Petyr rubbed the area around her shoulders briefly, easing the tension there. Then she felt his touch move down her back in a long, slow motion. It was comforting, the warmth he left behind. She appreciated the gesture more than she could say. It reminded her of when she was younger, feeling ill and being fussed over.

          Not a word passed between them, but Sansa felt like he could convey quite a lot with just a touch. Something in her shoulders loosened ever so slightly. It was a reassuring touch; one that felt like family. Like pack.

 

*

 

          At some point, Sansa felt comfortable enough to let her mind drift, unfocused. Petyr kept a warm arm around her, as though to shelter her from the elements. From herself. Her traitorous stomach quieted a bit. Eventually, she felt herself begin to drift a bit.

          Before she knew it, the sky was lightening, and she heard bird calls over the crash of waves. Bear Island loomed as large as life ahead of them. Slate-colored crags jutted up from the ocean around the island, unmoving and severe. Sansa watched as the men navigated around these toothy perils with ease. It was like a dance, almost. The crewmen avoided the worst swells and didn’t crash the ship into the shoals, somehow. Sansa stood at the bow as they came in to port on the proper side of the island. Docking could not come soon enough for her. She overheard that Lady Lyanna Mormont and her men will have seen them coming from the headland hours ago. They were expected.

          As soon as they lowered the gangway, Sansa was one of the first to disembark. She tried to maintain her dignity, but it was an effort. Wobbling down the wooden plank and clutching her stomach…she could only imagine how she looked to others.

          A few men and women formed their reception at the dock, coming from the nearby town. Bearstone, someone had called it. Sansa was slightly disappointed; it was barely half the size of Wintertown. As she looked around at the few faces that met them, she realized that none of them could be Lyanna Mormont. The Lady Mormont was a diminutive girl of ten. All she saw were older men and women. They were watching her almost warily. When the ship’s crew appeared, hauling cargo, the crofters’ attitudes changed. They surged forward to help unload and a lively chatter erupted. Sansa walked down the dock to get out of their way. The islanders didn’t need her clumsy offers of assistance. Not while she still felt so undignified and…green.

          They were also met by guardsmen, who wore the standing bear of House Mormont stamped into their leathers. Jon and Ser Davos facilitated brief introductions, but Sansa was near enough to hear most of what was said. They would be escorting their party up to the keep, they told Jon. Mormont Keep was at the top of the rise and easily visible, but she supposed the Mormont men were sent as a sign of respect to her—and her brother’s—status.

          The ride up to the keep was only a few hours. Sansa’s gelding seemed eager to put as much distance between himself and the ship as possible, all too happy to go up the hilly terrain. They wound their way up a dirt road. Everything smelled like moss and pine and wet earth.

          There were a few crofter’s huts in sight of them as they rode. Each one seemed tired and windblown, just like the twisted old oaks and ruddy pines around them. Perhaps they were relics of a time before House Mormont held the island. Maybe even before it was held by House Woodfoot, and a Stark ancestor won it in a wrestling match from the Ironborn. She imagined that the crofts’ occupants would be just as dour as the mold-dotted wood that made their houses.

          “Let us hope that Bear Island men are known for more than their building skills,” Ser Davos said, eyeing a specimen a stone’s throw from them.

          Camil, ahorse beside him, snorted. “They’ve withstood more Ironborn raids than you’ll ever see,” she pointed out. “They don’t have to be good at building things; you’re putting swords in their hands, not hammers.”

          “Aye, you’re right about that.” Ser Davos conceded this with a nod in Camil’s direction.

          Camil wasn’t a native to the island, but Sansa could see her prickle at the casual joke made by a southerner. _This is her corner of the North, and she’s proud of it_ , Sansa thought.

          Ser Davos went on to ask Camil questions about recent Ironborn raids, since the Wulls and some of the other clans fished the bay in good weather. Then they discussed the Ironborn occupation of northern holdfasts like Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte. It didn’t take long, listening to them, for her thoughts to turn to Theon. _Where is he now_? She wondered. _Did he find his sister, Yara_? There was a time when Theon considered her a sister. Her and Arya both.

          She felt her thoughts drift, and a feeling she couldn’t name wrapped around her like a cloak. The tightness in her chest when she thought that Bran and Rickon were dead, killed on Theon’s orders, had long gone. _At least Theon finally told me the truth in the end_ , she thought. Then she wondered where Bran was. How he was. She hoped that maybe Bran would find his way back to them.

          Jon was too far ahead of her in the line to talk with; Sansa could see him at the head of their party, deep in conversation with what appeared to be the head of the Mormont guard. When she looked behind her, there were more Mormont men ahorse. Then the wildlings made up the rear; she noticed they kept their distance from the Bear Island natives. It was to be expected, she supposed. Centuries of fighting each other couldn’t be scraped away in a single fortnight.

          It was late afternoon when they reached Mormont Keep. The ascent was steady, but long. Their path wound around the crag in a way that could only be man-made. Only the wooden palisade that surrounded the keep was visible. Large stakes jutted up from mounded earth like a bottom row of teeth, obscuring any buildings.

          They heard the roar of water and a series of odd, sharp cracks before they saw them: twin waterfalls, gushing a slurry of ice and water from the opposite cliff. The other side of the path became a sheer drop into half-frozen waters. It was probably very useful as a defensive position, she realized, like the cliffs that bordered the Red Keep.

          As they approached the gates, Sansa saw something was carved into the wood—a person. The human form grew more distinct, until she realized that it was a carving of a woman in a bearskin. A woman who held a babe to her breast in one arm, and a battle axe in the other. She couldn’t draw her eyes away from it. The woman’s timber gaze was almost piercing. _Would I have grown up to be just as fierce and brave, seeing someone like her every day_? She wondered if she might have.

          Their guard rode forward, calling out to the watchers on the walls of the keep. Cries of “Open the gates!” could be heard from somewhere within.

          “They say the Mormont women find bears to father their children,” Petyr remarked as he rode up beside Sansa. He was looking up at the carving with an amused expression.

          “They do not mate with bears,” she replied, shooting him a look.  

          “I like these Mormonts already,” Tormund said loudly behind them. “Especially if all of their women are tough as spearwives.” He let out a guttural laugh, and Sansa turned in time to see his beard shake with the force of it.

          “They will not like you, wildling. I can promise ye that,” Camil told him.

          Her horse had drifted farther back in the line, closer to Tormund’s, and the look she gave him seemed disapproving. “Bear Island has held its own against raiders from the Iron Islands for hundreds of years. They’ve held out against wildlings like you, looking to pillage and burn, for hundreds of years.”

          “I guess it’s a good thing we have more important fights to come, with winter soon upon us,” the wildling pointed out. “Besides, the Free Folk have had spent the last few years focused on surviving. You can’t try and make a living if you’re not one of the living.”

          Camil shook her head and pointed out, “Aye, but they don’t know that. To them, you’re just another wildling. A threat.”

          “Then I will tell them I am not,” Tormund said. He shrugged his shoulders, as though that were all he needed to do.

          “You do that,” Camil replied. She sounded confident that no one in this keep would let their guard down—not with wildlings near.

          “Got you to trust me, didn’t I?”

          “I don’t trust you,” Camil replied matter-of-factly.

          “You trust me enough to not slip into your tent at night and slit your throat while you sleep.”

          “How do you know that?” She asked dourly.

          “You sleep,” he said simply.  

          Tormund had a point. He laughed when Camil could only scowl in response. Sansa swore that the older woman’s wolf let out a snort as it emerged from the brush.

          The carving of the woman shifted and timber groaned as the gates were opened. They opened to a courtyard that could only be described as utter chaos.

          The keep was a flurry of activity, despite its small size. Servants darted around them in the yard, dodging the horses with practiced ease. Sansa figured they were preparing rooms, the stable, or going back and forth from the kitchens and making supper. One man dragged a bleating goat towards what looked like animal pens. Chickens were clucking and crying loud enough to be heard on their side of the yard, too.

          “Can you feel them?” Camil had ridden up beside Sansa, and she spoke to her as she dismounted.

          “Feel what?” Sansa was confused.

          “The animals, girl. Can you feel them? They’re noisy because they’re alarmed,” Camil said. She stepped down from her horse and gestured in the direction of the noisy livestock.

          “What’ve they got to be alarmed about?” Sansa frowned. If the older woman had a point, it was lost on her.

          “They can tell when wolves are near.” Camil’s voice implied that this should be obvious. “It doesn’t help that we’re upwind of ‘em.” 

          “Wolves…as in plural?” Sansa asked. She looked back at Chaika. The dark-furred wolf seemed unaware that she caused the servants to keep a broad distance, their eyes darting back and forth. When she turned back to Camil, Sansa raised an eyebrow.

          The older woman nodded and replied, “Yes. To them, we are the same: predators.”

          “What, don’t skin changers and wargs ever go into animals like chickens or goats?” Sansa felt obstinate, almost combative. Long hours spent sitting under weirwood trees with Camil, hours that accomplished nothing, threatened to bubble up to the surface.

          “Aye, sometimes they might,” Camil replied, “I was told that a skin changer begins to take after the animals they slip into…and those of us that slip into prey animals become skittish and afraid. Meek.”

          “Have you ever done it?” Sansa was curious now. “Been in the mind of a deer, or a—a rabbit, or something?”

          Camil nodded, “An’ it’s miserable compared to a wolf. Nothing compares.”

          The older woman held out a hand for Sansa to dismount and helped her down. Sansa murmured a word of thanks, but she turned over Camil’s words in her mind.

          “Who taught you? About wargs, I mean,” she clarified.

          “My mother’s sister,” Camil replied, “She had the gift as well.”

 _Some gift_. The thought came unbidden. But Sansa didn’t dwell on it. She looked around for a girl that could be young enough to be Lyanna Mormont.

          Jon approached the two of them with a coterie of Mormont guardsmen, and Ser Davos and Petyr not far behind. Tormund and the wildlings were dismounting and hauling packs off the horses.

          “They said Lady Mormont is ready to receive us,” Jon told them. “She’s with her maester and master-of-arms in their great hall.”

          Even though she knew they had to meet with her, convince her to pledge her house and men to their cause, Sansa still felt a flicker of nervousness under her ribs. _This is the only reason we came here_ , she chastised herself.

          “Let’s hope we make a good first impression, then,” she said to her brother.

          He gave her a small smile, one that was barely there. It made the scars beneath his eyes tighten and twist regardless. Sansa wondered if she would get used to seeing those scars on his face.

          “You’d better do the talking, then,” Jon replied. Another small smile.

          The Mormont men led the way down a series of large wooden passages, until they arrived at the keep’s great hall. Sansa took a moment to look at the green chevron pattern painted across wooden beams. The warmth of a large hearth fire met her, and the hall smelled of cooked meats and burning firewood. She stepped forward with Jon to introduce herself to the small girl. She sat incredibly still, this Lyanna Mormont, and her dark eyes stared up at them from beneath a massive cloak of brown furs. Sansa hoped they would be convincing.

 

*

 

          In the end, Sansa’s worries about their reception were unnecessary. Her courtesy had floundered under the accusation of being disloyal by not one, but two traitorous marriages. Eventually, Lady Mormont had warmed to them somewhat, especially after Ser Davos’ passionate defense of their cause. He reminded them that a trueborn son of Ned Stark was being held captive in Winterfell this very moment, which helped immeasurably. In the end, the young lady pledged her house’s loyalty and all sixty-two of the island’s fighting men to their cause. It was a diminutive fighting force, and Sansa was as disappointed as Jon at gaining so few allies. _I hope what she said is true_ , Sansa thought. _I hope all sixty-two of them fight with the strength of ten mainlanders_. Lord Wull had pledged around five-hundred men to them, and Lord Liddle of Pinesend’s levy was little more than half that. The Norreys and other, smaller mountain clans had even fewer.

          They were offered a bite of food, since it would be some hours until supper. A day of riding meant empty bellies, Lady Mormont had said. It was merely bread and cheese with some ale to wash it down, but Sansa and Jon ate it dutifully and thanked their host all the same. No matter the pretext, they had broken bread with their host and received guest rights.

          She looked at Jon while they ate in near-silence; she wondered if he was thinking about Robb too. _We are safe_ , Sansa thought. _For another night, at least_. She could hardly taste it.

 _I wonder if my mother thought the same thing at the Twins_ , a voice in her mind whispered. She felt foolish, taking comfort in the illusion of safety. The laws of guest right were as old as the First Men and as sacred as a heart tree. But what did that mean anymore? Sansa wondered if the Umbers had given meat and mead to Rickon, luring him under their roof before giving him up to Ramsay.

 _Poor Rickon_ , she thought sadly, not for the first time. There was likely more suffering in store for her younger brother; surely he was in Ramsay’s dungeon, being tortured. _Unless he’s already dead_. Her chest suddenly felt tight, and she hurried to push the thought away.

 _I must not cry_. She wished to avoid it at all cost—what would their host think?  Lady Lyanna was a small, dark-haired girl of ten, but she spoke harshly enough to be taken for a woman grown. Her mother died honorably, fighting for Robb. Sansa only hoped that the Lady Mormont still held the laws of hospitality as sacred.

          Sansa’s misgivings lessened when the small lady invited the wildlings to sup with them in the hall. It was a surprise, and she could tell Jon had not been expecting such an invitation. It was also a surprise to her master-at-arms and maester, judging by their expressions. Her maester leaned forward, as though to whisper in her ear to reconsider, but his lady held up a gloved hand to stop him.

          “Bear Island men and women are tough because they need to be,” Lyanna said, her expression stern. “Ironborn and wildling raids have made us so. We grow up fearing squids on the horizon, or wildlings sailing from the Frozen Shore.”

Lyanna shot Jon a look of resolve, adding, “If you speak truly, Ser, then we all have a common enemy. Your wildling men are our guests; see that they obey our laws, and that they do not molest our lands or our people.”

          “You can be sure of it, my lady,” Jon had told her. His voice sounded confident, though he was always earnest; Sansa remembered all the times he’d wanted to do the right thing when they were children. How he wanted to see the good in other people. Jon trusted these men with him, vouched for them without hesitation. He believed in them. If only she could believe in someone, anyone, so completely as her brother. Sansa thought the wildlings in their company would follow those rules easily enough…though the servants in the keep might take offense. They might lash out. There had been a scuffle or two while traveling in the mountains, but that was when drink was involved.

          _It gives some men courage_ , _Petyr said once_ , she remembered, distantly. It felt like so long ago that he’d said it. _Will some cups of ale give some Mormont men an excuse to pick fights with wildlings_? _To break this alliance down_? She wondered how the men of other houses they treated with would behave when they saw wildlings in her brother’s train.

 

*

 

          They were shown to rooms and given time to rest. After a while, Sansa wandered down the corridors and explored a bit. She had a conversation with Ser Davos in front of a massive stuffed bear, discussing estimates for how long preparations would take before they moved out. Soon enough servants appeared, guiding them to the great hall.

          Dinner’s fare looked hearty. Sansa watched servants bring out venison roasted with garlic and herbs, meat pies, turnips mashed in butter, baked cod cakes, a stew with lots of carrots, and fresh bread. The wooden tables seemed to bow under the weight of it all. There were even tarts made from late berries found on the island. The smells alone made her mouth water. There were flagons of sweet red wine offered at the head table, and Sansa accepted it politely.

          She was seated near their host, with Jon on Lady Mormont’s other side. Ser Davos was to her left, and Petyr sat across from her. He wore a doublet that was more bronze than brown, with tiny patterns stitched in green thread. They were almost Mormont colors, and she was a little impressed that he had clothing enough to choose from, let alone their host’s colors. She wondered if it was an effort to please the tiny bear. _Unless it’s a coincidence_ … _not that handsome clothes will impress the girl sitting beside me_. _She must prepare for war alongside her maester’s lessons_.

          The wildlings and mountain clainsmen, and Camil, were seated below the salt, not that they seemed to mind. The mead flowed readily. What snatches of conversation Sansa heard from them was lively.

          “We’ve had ravens from Lady Hornwood, and Lord Flint of Breakstone Hill,” Lyanna told them, during a lull in conversation. 

          “And?” Jon’s expression was hopeful.

          “They’ve warned us about the Boltons for years now, even before the Leech Lord betrayed your brother Robb.” Lyanna’s voice was low, but certain. Sansa turned in time to see the girl wrinkled her nose in distaste, as though the stink of Bolton corruption could reach even Bear Island.

          “They received your ravens,” Lyanna continued, “And they wanted to declare their support, and they’ve agree to rally their forces at Long Lake.”

          “That is excellent news,” Sansa said. She tried to mask her disappointment; houses Hornwood and Flint were small, and she doubted they had a levy of more than a few hundred men. Both houses had lost men fighting for Robb as well.

          “They hadn’t heard of the Boltons capturing your brother Rickon, but they both agree; the last trueborn son of Ned Stark, our liege lord, cannot remain a prisoner in his own home.” Lyanna’s expression was one of utmost seriousness.

          Sansa glanced at Jon—or what she could glimpse of him—on Lyanna’s other side. His expression didn’t look any different, but she imagined there was a hint of discomfort over being reminded of his bastard status.

          “Aye, Rickon is their rightful liege lord,” Jon agreed, “and we cannot let the Boltons continue to murder our family, our people, without consequence. Each man they execute means fewer who can fight when the real war comes.”

          “I don’t know your brother, this man Rickon Stark,” Tormund admitted.

          “He’s not even a man grown,” Jon replied. His expression was somber. “He’d be…what, fourteen? Fifteen?” He looked to Sansa for confirmation.

          “He was just a baby when we left,” Sansa said quietly. She remembered his bright eyes and stubborn mouth, set in a face that was always dirty. His hair was mussed and sticking out in odd directions in her memories. She thought about how different he must look, but also the same. _Will I recognize him_? She wondered. _Will Ramsay leave anything for me to recognize_?

          “All we can do is try our best to get him back,” Tormund said, half-raising his cup of mead towards them from his end of the table.

          “You’re right,” Jon said, nodding.

          “I don’t care that he’s some lordling—I follow you, Jon Snow. But he’s your kin,” Tormund said. He shrugged. “And these Bolton fuckers will hunt us free folk down like dogs, even if we don’t fight for you now. I want to keep my people alive and give them the best chance to survive, once the Long Night comes again.”

          “I want that too,” Jon told the redhead seriously. “If we’re all goin’ to survive, it’ll be by working together.”

          To Sansa, it felt like Jon spoke to Tormund as if he were the only other person in the room; they spoke with something unsaid between them. _What happened to them beyond the Wall_? Sansa wondered, not for the first time.

          “Then the free folk march with you, and we will take your home back from a pig so cowardly he has to beat his women.”

          Sansa looked sharply at Tormund. It was obvious that he’d seen her bruises when she first arrived at Castle Black. But to freely speak of it over dinner was mortifying. _That’s not his story to tell_ , she wanted to say. But Ser Davos was already wearing a horrified expression, as though he’d just seen Tormund stab a man in front of them.

          Lyanna Mormont—and her maester, Sansa noticed—were looking at her. Her maester had the courtesy to look away when she caught him staring, at least. But for some reason, Lyanna’s gaze unsettled her.

          “He beat you?”

          Lyanna’s question was directed at her, but Sansa glanced around the table before answering anyway. Everyone was staring.

          “And worse,” she replied, nodding to their host. Across from her, Petyr was watching her intently, his expression unreadable.

          “Ramsay Bolton is likely doling out the same punishments to my little brother; he flays and tortures people for fun, my lady,” Sansa told her. “It matters not if they’re men, women, or children.”

          “Evil bastard.” The master-at-arms, Ser Edmond Knell, spat in disgust at one end of the table.

          “And you call us free folk savages,” Tormund said, frowning. “We don’t hunt people for sport.”

          “You steal your women,” Ser Knell responded, giving the wildling a dark look.

          “That’s different.” Tormund looked insulted by the comparison. “If she doesn’t want to go with a man, she fights him off; if she’s too weak to do it alone, she gets her village to help drive him off.”

          “Oh, that’s loads better,” Camil snorted from another table.

          “We do not butcher innocent people and babes.” Tormund shot Camil a look. “Do you know why I’m here? Why I’m treating with fancy lords and ladies who’d sooner spit than speak to me and mine? Because my son is _dead_.”

          There was a sudden silence in the hall. Sansa didn’t know it could get so quiet, so fast.

          Tormund glanced, as though belatedly realizing he’d captured the attention of everyone in the hall. He continued, “Torwynd was his name. There was a chill, one that lasted for several nights. The kind that’ll freeze your nose off before you even realize you cannot feel it. Torwynd grew sick, and one morning…he never woke. I buried my boy and prepared to grieve for him.

          Three days later, when darkness fell, he—he rose again. By the gods, that thing was _not_ my son. Torwynd had green eyes in life; when he returned, his eyes were as blue as the clear sky. He tried to attack me. I felt his hands around my neck, but…for a corpse three days old, he didn’t smell like anything but the cold. Do you have any idea what it’s like, to watch your son sicken and die—to bury and mourn him—only for him to return as a wight? To have to end my son’s life because he came back a monster in his own skin?”

          There was a deep, pervasive silence. The only sound for several heartbeats were logs crackling on the hearth fire.

          “I cannot imagine,” Lyanna said, diplomatically. Her expression seemed softer as she met the gaze of the redheaded wildling.   

          “I follow Jon Snow because he is the best chance for my people’s survival—and make sure no one is forced to do what I did. I made a promise to Jon on behalf of my people, and I will keep it; we will save his kin and get back this Winterfall—”

          “Winterfell,” Jon corrected him seamlessly.

          “Winterfell, then.” To Tormund, it seemed to matter not. “We will get back this Winterfell, and prepare for the Long Night that will come again.”

          The surety of Tormund’s voice was almost a relief. Sansa wondered what that felt like. Several wildlings at the nearest table to theirs overheard, for they were nodding in approval. She heard them muttering ‘hear, hear,’ and Tormund’s name.

          “More impossible things’ve happened.” Jon spoke up.

          Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Petyr’s gaze shift to Jon. _Curious._

          “And it won’t be the first time a Stark has escaped their enemies,” Jon added, looking over at Sansa.

          _What is he trying to do? Instill confidence that we can just get Rickon back with a snap of the fingers_? _It isn’t so easy_ , she thought. If anyone knew that, it was her. But she was uncomfortable with Jon discussing her flight—from King’s Landing, Winterfell, or both—especially at the dinner table. Especially in front of so many strangers.

          “We had heard that Lady Sansa escaped the capital, and on the eve of the pretender king’s wedding—the Purple Wedding, they call it.” Lyanna Mormont looked at Sansa as she said it, tapping the table with a finger as if in thought.

          “My sister Sansa has escaped the Lannisters and the Boltons both,” Jon agreed. “And I thought I’d never see her again…not when I heard the news about our father.”

          It seemed so distant, now. So much had happened since, but Sansa wasn’t sure how much information had found its way to the Wall.

          “How did you escape King’s Landing, my lady, if I may ask?” Ser Davos’ expression was one of curiosity. “I’ve smuggled people in an’ out o’ King’s Landing, but never a highborn guest from the midst of a royal wedding feast, that’s for sure.”

          Petyr was looking at her again. He gave her the tiniest nod of assent, as though she needed his permission to speak. _The true answer will help us here_. It was as if Petyr were whispering in her ear.

          “Lord Baelish saved me,” Sansa replied, turning to look at the little bear. “He smuggled me away when he had the chance, and brought me to the Eyrie to live with my Aunt Lysa, and my cousin Robin Arryn.”

          “Then how did the Boltons get their hands on you?” Lyanna Mormont asked. Her expression was one of confusion.

          “The Lannisters have spies everywhere, even in the Vale.” Petyr answered their host. His tone was smooth. Sure. “Our carriage was set upon by Bolton men, and Sansa was taken. Apparently, they decided to keep her to bolster their claim on the North, rather than give her over to the Lannisters for execution.”

          Lyanna nodded in understanding.

          Sansa bit down on the urge to correct Petyr’s account. _Liar_ , she thought. _He’s lying right to their faces_ … _even though I know the truth_. _Jon knows the truth, too—he could say something right now if he wanted to_.

          She’d told Jon everything at Castle Black, as soon as they’d been able to speak alone. It had taken hours and several mugs of sour ale, but Sansa had spoken until her voice grew hoarse. The time she’d spent in King’s Landing, her travels to the Vale, living in the Eyrie all too briefly, and Littlefinger’s gambit. Everything. Well…almost everything. Aunt Lysa’s death was still the altered version she’d told Lord Royce, Lady Waynwood, and the other lords of the Vale. But Jon knew the truth of how she came to be ‘captured’ by the Boltons.

          Jon’s expression was stony, although Sansa did notice him staring at Petyr. _What is Jon thinking_? She wondered. _Will he say something_? When she looked back at Petyr, she saw him pick up his goblet and raise it in her direction.

          “The next time Sansa Stark returns to Winterfell, it will be with an army at her back, and Ramsay Bolton on the executioner’s block.”

          “I’ll drink to that,” Ser Davos said. Several others murmured in assent and, raising their cups as well, drank deeply.

          Sansa lifted her goblet and smiled at Petyr. “I would not be sitting here today without Lord Baelish’s help, Lady Mormont; he’s a true ally for the wars to come.”

          She drank deeply, hoping to smother the coals that burned somewhere in the center of in her chest. A warmth spread down her arms, but she couldn’t tell if it was from anger or the wine.

          Lyanna did the same, drinking from the smaller cup of wine at her elbow. Her maester leaned in and reminded her that she could only have the one cup this evening. While the tiny lady groused at being babied, Sansa peered over at Jon. He drained his goblet, before looking over in Petyr’s direction again.     

          Tormund challenged the Mormont master-at-arms, promising to drink the other man under the table. Ser Knell called for more mead, and lively chatter erupted around them again. Sansa focused her attention on the food in front of her; she avoided looking at Petyr. Then Lady Mormont was asking her a question about Winterfell’s defenses, after the Boltons rebuilt. It was easier to focus on Lyanna’s questions—on practical matters.

          Sometime after her second goblet of wine, her anger grew manageable. She engaged in conversations throughout the meal, smiling and remembering her courtesy. _Courtesy is a lady’s armor_ , she thought. _Let it shield me tonight; I can confront Petyr when we’re alone_. She had no doubt that he would seek her out soon enough. When she found her cup empty, she signaled for a flagon to be brought over.

          The meal lasted until well after sundown, and the wine and mead had flowed steadily. Eventually, Sansa noticed how hot it grew in the hall. When she stood to excuse herself, she felt a bit lightheaded.

 

*

 

          Outside of the great hall, it didn’t take long at all to reach the open air. When she did, Sansa felt better. She managed to find the godswood without too much issue. It was a relief to find it empty.

          The night air had grown colder. She could feel it, sharp and brittle in her throat like glass. Sansa was too conscious of the rise and fall of her chest, the way her warm breath ribboned out of her. A low fog swam over the belly of the godswood, she saw.

          As she walked towards it, the massive heart tree seemed to rise out of the mist like an apparition. Its carved face looked ancient, yet delicate, despite the trunk’s massive size. As she grew nearer, Sansa saw that it was weeping red sap…but only from the eyes. Its eyes were red-rimmed and sad. The bark, she noticed, seemed to glow in the moonlight that reached it. Few stars shone through the leaves of the enormous heart tree. _There is something odd about this face_ , she thought to herself. She felt strange…and a little nauseous.

          The tree stood out, pale and solemn in the darkness. For a long moment there was no sound but wind and the water. The flutter of leaves. Suddenly, beyond the large wooden keep, there was a long, low noise. It sounded like an animal’s cry.

 _What was that_? She wondered. _It doesn’t sound like a wolf, or a dog_.

          It sounded startled. Too deep a call to be a mule or a horse…it sounded like it came from far away.  

          A cold feeling walked down her spine. Then, for a moment, she felt dizzy. Sansa sat down with a hard, involuntary thump onto the ground at the base of the weirwood. Her heart was racing. She took a few low, long breaths, before looking up at the face carved into the tree. It looked sad, as they all did. Sad and weary. They all mourned something in red sap, only Sansa didn’t know what.

          She touched the roots at the base of the tree, and took another few moments to rest. There were no more odd cries or sounds outside the keep. She didn’t hear that animal again. Now she heard only normal night sounds. Bats tittered somewhere in the trees. Wind whistled through the leaves. The sounds comforted her, and she relaxed against the weirwood roots.  

          After a while, she heard other noises. These were close by; someone was approaching. She heard them stumble, followed by a short curse.

          It was Petyr.

          “Aren’t you cold, my lady?” came a quiet voice.

          “Not at all,” Sansa said, after a moment of hesitation. She had wanted to sit and enjoy the silence for a while. It felt like she hadn’t had a peaceful moment to herself; not since she’d reached Castle Black. The brief stillness had been a blessing—even with her dizzy spell.

          “May I join you?” Petyr asked, coming to stand at the base of the weirwood tree.

          “Yes.”

          She didn’t want him to join her, truthfully. But he was here now, and she half-worried that if she were alone for too long, dark thoughts would catch up with her. Or that she’d fall asleep for who knows how long.

          He took a seat beside her. For a little while, Petyr said nothing. She could see his outline, hear his breathing. It was so quiet that she could hear the sigh of fur against grass when he shifted in his seat. Wind shook through the trees, and glints of moonlight shone on Petyr’s hair, his cloak. Sansa could only be aware of his presence and nothing else.   

          “You seemed elsewhere at dinner, my lady,” he said, finally.

          Sansa had been preoccupied during and after dinner, it was true. And she’d probably drunk more of that sweet red wine than she ought’ve. Any awkwardness created by the subject of her captivity had dissolved, as sugar that slid into water, the more that Sansa drank.

          “I had a lot on my mind, Lord Baelish.”

          She could hear him move closer to her, then felt a light touch to her knee.

          “We are alone, sweetling,” he suggested. His words were an offering.  

          “But a guard could overhear—”

          “I circled the godswood twice,” Petyr tried to assure her, “No one’s ventured near here. People don’t usually seek out a godswood when they have bellies full of wine.” His tone was light. He was teasing her, Sansa realized.

          “Are you implying that I drank too much?” she asked.

          “Merely an observation,” he replied innocently.

          “Well…I didn’t.”

          “Of course not. Others drank quite a bit more than you, if I might add.”

          She could make out a small smile on his face. He patted her knee gently.  

          “You drank too,” Sansa pointed out. She felt like she was stating the obvious, but she didn’t care.   

          “So I did.”

          They sat together for several long moments, before Petyr spoke again.

          “Would you tell me what’s been on your mind?”

          “Why did you lie about how I ended up with the Boltons?” The words seemed to rush out of her in one long string; she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

          There was a long pause.

          “I told the lords of the Vale that you were kidnapped on our way to the Fingers,” Petyr replied.

          “Of course you did.” Sansa fought the urge to roll her eyes, even though he likely wouldn’t see it.

          “If Lady Mormont and your other Northern lords confer with Lord Royce and the other Valemen, and they will eventually, the subject may come up.”

          “Other people know the truth, Petyr,” she said, feeling frustrated. “Jon knows the truth, and so does Brienne. Do you really think we can retake Winterfell without a single Bolton soldier recognizing you?”

          “No, I do not.” Petyr’s voice was quiet, but certain.

          “Then why bother with the lie?” It made no sense to her. A single Bolton captive need only recognize Petyr for his lie to unravel. Brienne or Jon could feel compelled to correct him. Jon hadn’t when he heard it tonight, but Sansa had watched him. He’d looked surprised, briefly, before his expression became grimly serious.

          “Because they want to believe it, Sansa.” She felt Petyr rub her knee with a gentle thumb. “The truth is messier, and it could lead to conflict between the Vale and the North. Conflict can dissolve this partnership and end our plans to retake Winterfell before we even reach a battlefield.”

          “So…they’ll believe it just because they want to?” Sansa felt incredulous.

          “My men have been singing the right songs in the Vale’s encampents, telling the cooks and grooms all about their party being set upon by Bolton men,” he explained.

          “And you think they’ll gossip about it to their betters?”

          Petyr chuckled, before replying, “It is a convincing tale, sweetling; even more so when Lady Brienne killed some of my men when she pursued us. Those men died on the journey after we left Bronze Yohn’s keep in Runestone—that much is true. The tales that are the easiest to believe have a kernel of truth to them.”

          “And why won’t Brienne say something the moment she returns?” Sansa wanted to know why he thought someone as honorable as Brienne would go along with such a lie, and not correct it as soon as she heard it.

          “Because it’s in her best interests to avoid being known for killing men of the Vale,” Petyr answered. “She killed Lord Robar Royce, a member of Renly Baratheon’s kingsguard—who was also Bronze Yohn’s eldest son and heir.”

 _Did she really_? Sansa paused, thinking about that.

          “Does Lord Royce know?”

          “Perhaps; I suppose we’ll see when Lady Brienne returns, won’t we? If she is known to have killed a cadre of Valemen too, it won’t prove her to be very innocent of wrongdoing, will it?”

          Petyr sounded as though he were sharing a precious ingot of wisdom with her, something she should remember and hold tightly for future use. As though she should take note and be reassured. His words had the opposite effect. It was an effort to restrain the surge of anger. _He’s lying to save himself_. Sansa felt disgusted.

          “You’re lying to save your own skin,” she said, reaching down to push his hand off her knee. 

          “Not just, sweetling,” Petyr replied, “I’m saving your honor, too. What sounds more appealing—a helpless lady, captured by the enemies that murdered her mother and brother, or the lady who willingly entered a marriage pact with those same enemies?”

          “Not willingly, Petyr.” She felt her nostrils flare, felt her heart pound in her ears, and took a deep breath to try and calm herself. If she raised her voice, others might hear and come investigate.

          “I know that, sweetling, but this way your honor is not besmirched. In this matter, your hands are clean. Always keep your hands clean, Sansa.”

          “And if Jon says something before I can stop him?” Sansa wanted to know how Littlefinger figured her half-brother’s penchant for honesty into his plans.

          “If he does, it will trouble our—your—story. You’d best talk to him sooner, rather than later.”  

          Sansa scoffed. _So he’s placing this on me_ , she thought.

          “What is it, sweetling?” Petyr asked.

          “I just…” She trailed off, trying to find the words. If his lie backfired because Jon felt compelled to speak up, then the blame would fall on her. Petyr’s hands would be clean—or cleaner-looking than hers, at least.

          “What?”

          “I want you to take responsibility at least _once_ in your life for your mistakes,” Sansa replied. She tasted a bitterness on her tongue that had nothing to do with dinner. His hands were always clean, but she wanted him to own up to the dirt he’d dragged her through.

          “Sansa, I—”

          “Why don’t _you_ speak with my brother?” She wanted to know.

          “I can,” Petyr offered. “I can sing a song he’ll accept, but surely you know that your efforts with him will be more persuasive.”

 _Petyr sings so many different songs_ , she thought; _how does he keep track of them all_? It was a thought that came now and then, his ability to lie so well and so often, but to never get caught in any of those lies. To never face any repercussions.

          “How do you keep track of all your songs, and not get things mixed up?”

          “I happen to have an excellent memory and repertoire,” he replied. He had an air of confidence to him as he said it. Sansa pictured a smug grin too, even if she couldn’t see it.

          “You wear so many different faces to manipulate people into getting what you want,” Sansa said finally. “But tell me, Petyr…who are you, when you’re alone?”

          Petyr didn’t respond, but she felt his fingers on her knee stiffen. In the flecks of moonlight, Sansa could see he was looking at her. Not speaking. A few moments passed, and she knew he didn’t have an answer ready to give her.

          Suddenly, there was a noise somewhere behind them. A low growl. Petyr froze, and Sansa looked behind her. There was a pair of eyes in the darkness. It was Thistle, she thought immediately, even though she had no way of seeing the dog clearly enough to distinguish her from her brother.

          “What is that?” Petyr’s voice was still quiet, but there was an undercurrent of fear in it.

          “Thistle,” Sansa replied. She kept her gaze on the animal approaching the heart tree. Thistle stayed low, crouching as if she were stalking prey.

          “Did you call her?” he asked.

          “No, I—no. Of course not.”

          “Sansa, can you—” Petyr placed a hand on her knee again, but he pulled away when Thistle began growling once more.

          “Is Camil using her to spy on us?”

          “No. Besides, why would she do such a thing?” Sansa didn’t exactly know how she knew that Camil wasn’t riding along in Thistle. She just did.

          “I’ll save my lecture on using every tool at your disposal to get what you want for another time,” Petyr replied.

          Sansa could feel Petyr’s gaze staring beyond her, focusing on Thistle’s encroaching form. _How did Thistle know to find us here_? She wondered. _Why did she come looking for me_?

          “Sansa, would you mind…sending her away?”

          She looked at Petyr sharply, and heard Thistle growl again.

          “And just how would I do that? She’s Camil’s dog.” She frowned. Could she do that—send the dog away? Did she want to?

          “It seems she’s responding to you, Sansa,” Petyr said, voice calm.

          “Thistle.” Sansa reached out to the dog in the darkness. “Thistle, come.”

          The shaggy hound listened. Ears pricked forward, Thistle came to sit beside Sansa. Her tail thumped against the ground briefly, and her large body leaned into Sansa’s. Thistle’s eyes remained on Petyr, wide and watchful.

          “Sansa—”

          Whatever Petyr was about to say was interrupted by Thistle’s growls once more. Sansa felt no fear whatsoever, and a part of her marveled at it. With one hand against the tree for balance, she reached out with the other to pet the dog. Thistle accepted the scratches behind one ear, but kept her eyes on Petyr.

          “I believe this is my cue to go to bed, Lord Baelish,” Sansa said, wiping off her dress as she stood. “Sleep well.”

          Petyr tried to say something, but it was overshadowed by another low growl. He didn’t rise when Sansa did, likely out of fear of earning the dog’s ire. As Sansa moved away from the tree, Thistle followed. Looking behind her, a patch of moonlight moved with the rustling leaves. It illuminated the hurt expression on Petyr’s face, the frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

         “Sleep well, Sansa.” She heard him say it quietly, when she and the dog were out of immediate reach. Feeling no need to say anything more, Sansa patted the dog gently and headed towards the halls that bordered the godswood, which would lead her to her chamber. _And a real bed_ , she thought, feeling a bit giddy at that.

 

*

 

          On her way back to her room, Thistle stopped with her, each time she felt a brief wave of dizziness. When they reached the hallway that led to her chambers, she saw the other hound, Ruan. He sat, dignified and alert, at the hallway’s entrance. His eyes were bright and knowing in the torchlight. He gave a small whimper and approached her haltingly, as though seeking permission to be near her.

          When Sansa held out her hand, and he licked her fingers. It was as if he nudged her in the direction of her chambers, could sense how tired she was. How disoriented she felt. When she stopped and placed a hand on the wall, waiting until the world righted again, Thistle or Ruan were there, a steady pressure into her leg.

          The pair of hounds escorted her the rest of the way, but when she opened the chamber door, Ruan came inside almost persistently.

 _Camil said that wargs can sense each other, even when they’re in a beast_ , she thought drowsily. All that Sansa felt right now was warmth. She didn’t bother removing more than her cloak and boots, instead sinking into the bed fully clothed. Once she’d settled, the hound jumped up at the foot of it. She forgot to chastise him and push him off; she wasn’t used to him yet. And he wasn’t Lady.

          Ruan’s shaggy body was better than any brick at the foot of the bed, at least, she thought drowsily. Curling up beneath the covers, Sansa let the warmth of the bed and her impromptu companion lull her into sleep.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lengthy delay...hopefully a 10k chapter makes up for it a bit. 
> 
> So...story time: Brienne totally murdered Robar Royce (in the show). In the books, Bronze Yohn has more sons, but they seem to have gotten rid of them on the show. Should be an interesting problem for Brienne. 
> 
> Show Tormund mentions two daughters. In the books, Tormund Giantsbane has four sons and one daughter. After their defeat at the Wall and Mance Rayder's capture, Tormund becomes leader of the free folk. He mentions his son's death and un-death as being why he accepts the terms of the Night's Watch to pass the Wall, and the fact that the Others keep decimating their numbers. It's very good character development that, for some reason, the show doesn't give him. 
> 
> Also in the books, there is an old blind dog who lives in Baelish's castle when he and Sansa go to the Fingers. It's described as useless and just sleeps around all day. During this time, the bard Marillion, who doesn't exist in the show, tries to rape Sansa. He's stopped, thankfully, but when Marillion enters a room after that, the old dog gets up and starts growling at him. 
> 
> Food for thought.


	9. Crypt Dreamers and Cross Bearers

When Sansa awoke the next morning, her head felt stuffy and two paces behind the rest of her body. Her mouth was impossibly dry, too. The sun was already filtering through the shutters; it was sometime past dawn. Sansa wondered how long she’d slept. It was a real bed, though. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept so well. Feeling movement beside her, she jumped. A dog appeared at her elbow.

          Ruan.

          Her heart thudded in her chest as she tried to calm down. Memories of the night before were slow to return to her. Ruan whined and licked her hand gently.

          “You surprised me, that’s all.” She ran her fingers through his dark, brindled fur, and his tail thumped against the bed. “I wish you were Lady, though.”

          Ruan licked her hand again, as though he understood.

          She’d been dreaming of the crypts of Winterfell. Lady had been in her dream, too, she remembered. Bigger than she’d been in life, her direwolf had been stalking the halls of the crypt. A warm, happy feeling lingered. Looking down at the rumpled dress she still wore, Sansa was embarrassed that she’d fallen asleep this way. While she was pulling out a change of smallclothes, and her only other dress, she heard noises. Noises that were coming from the other side of the bedroom door.

          “Ow! Hey—stop it, you. Sansa? Are you awake?”

          It was Jon’s voice. _What’s he doing out there_? She wondered. When she opened the door, Sansa was met with a peculiar sight: Jon was wrestling the fabric of his trousers from a dog’s mouth. From Thistle’s mouth.

          “Jon? What’s going on?”

          At the sound of her voice, Thistle dropped the fabric she held fast in her teeth, before sitting down on her haunches. She looked up at them both, innocent eyes set in a black mask.

          “I dunno,” he replied, keeping his gaze on the hound while he spoke. “You missed breakfast—they said you were still in your chambers, and that a dog was growling at anyone who came near your door.”

          “What time is it?” she asked, looking at her brother sharply.

          “It’s nearly midday.” When Thistle didn’t bite at him again, Jon looked up at her. His expression was one of concern.

          “Nearly midday?” Her heart skipped a beat. She wondered how she could sleep so late. _They’ll think I’m a silly lie-abed after this_ , she realized.

          “I told the Lady Mormont that it’s unlike you,” he said, “and perhaps you were feelin’ unwell.”

          “My head hurts a little, but I’m fine.”

          “May I come in?” He gestured at the room behind her. Jon looked hesitant…even when asking for her permission.  _Is it because of the dogs_? Sansa wondered why one was here in her chambers, and why the other was standing guard outside. And why they’d sought her out last night. But her head still felt a bit muddied, and it was hard to wade through all the questions that sprang up one after another.

          Instead of answering, Sansa opened the door wider and stepped back to let him in. When her brother entered, he smelled of roasted meat and old smoke. There was a bit of brisk, open air that might’ve trailed behind him from the courtyard. She imagined that he had prowled around the keep, offering any kind of help that could speed up their departure.  

          “Do you feel all right?” Jon asked. The words left his mouth as soon as she shut the door behind him.

          “I’m fine, Jon,” she told him. “Really, I am.”

          “How many cups of wine did you have last night? I saw you drinking a few.” His tone bordered on amusement, and she was not in the mood to be teased.  

          “I don’t remember.” She shot him a look.

          Jon smiled, before she saw his gaze focus on something behind her. “The other one’s in your room? Sansa…did something happen?”

          “Nothing happened,” she replied hotly. When she took a step backward, she noticed Ruan was behind her, alert and watching them.

          “Did you have any…wolf dreams last night?” Jon’s voice was suddenly almost…shy.

          She regarded him with curiosity, and said, “No, I didn’t, I—I just dreamt of the crypts at Winterfell. It was a normal dream.” A dream of a home without Ramsay.

          Jon was looking at something over her shoulder, not meeting her eyes. He seemed like he was there and a thousand miles away at the same time. She swore that he was almost disappointed by her answer.

          “Did you?” she asked.

          “Yes.” Her brother’s voice was quiet. When he met her eyes, his own looked inexplicably sad.

          “Really?” Sansa was surprised. Even though he’d said as much to everyone in the mountains, it was difficult to believe. The idea that their wolf dreams were…more than dreams. That this was something they both shared. When she was younger, Sansa had been convinced that they had almost nothing in common—even less in common than her and Arya. Jon had always been so serious, where she was silly; she knew that now. She had been a silly child who dreamt of princes and enchantments and fate.

          “Ghost is across the bay,” Jon told her. “I thought he’d stay with the Free Folk until they marched on Long Lake…”

          “But he’s here.” Well, on the other side of the bay, but Jon knew what she meant. The thought of the white direwolf made her a little sad; he was a living reminder of what she’d lost. But Ghost had been happy to see her at Castle Black, at least. It’d been so long since she had seen any of their wolves. Most of them were already gone.  

          Jon nodded and said, “Yes…I watched him bring down a deer in my dream. I tasted it.” Jon touched his chin, as though he could feel a specter of juices and hot blood there still.   

          “What did it taste like?” She wondered how raw meat tasted to a direwolf.

          “Like fear.” Jon crouched before the cold hearth, pulling out a half-singed stick. “It was tough, gamy, and had this sour taste. Somehow, I knew it was because she was terrified before I—before Ghost—brought her down.”

          “I imagine it had never seen a direwolf before.” She shrugged; her brother knew how big Ghost was now. He scared the living daylights out of grown men. She could only imagine the effect he had on a poor deer.

          “It was more than that.” Jon drew a line on the hearthstones with the charcoal-tipped stick. More lines followed. Soon enough Sansa could make out the crude form of a deer.

          “It’s almost like…she knew something’s comin’,” he said quietly.

          “I wouldn’t ascribe that much awareness to a stupid deer,” she replied. _How could an idiot deer know about the White Walkers_?

          Jon looked up at her and shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I saw…”

          She frowned. “You saw what?”

          “The Kingsroad.” He drew a straight line beside the deer, stretching up to another hearthstone. She stepped closer, to get a better look at her bastard brother’s charcoal smudges. Sansa watched as Jon drew a score of X’s on either side of the line.

          “Are those…?”

          “Crosses.” Jon’s voice was flat. “There are flayed men on crosses all along the Kingsroad.” His brow furrowed as he stared at the smudges, as though they’d come to life.  

 _Ramsay_. Sansa felt her mouth open and close, with little more than a puff of air where her words should be. “Wh—Who were they?” she asked, finally.

          “I dunno,” Jon shrugged. “Some had signs, with ‘ _traitor_ ’ or ‘ _Baratheon scum_ ’ written on them. Most didn’t have any signs at all.”

          “Everyone will see them as they march on Winterfell with us.” The Kingsroad went on for leagues. _How many men did Ramsay butcher and flay alive_? She thought, sickened. _Were they all still alive when he did it? And for what purpose? To send a message_?

          “Aye, they will, and Ramsay Bolton is trying to buy himself more time,” Jon told her. “He knows we have to deal with the dead, and every delay means we could face worse weather than the day before. He’s hoping we’ll get trapped just like Stannis did.”

          Sansa shook her head. “We can’t delay. Burn the bodies quickly or leave them, but they’re going to be the best proof of our claims to Ramsay’s barbarism.”  

          Jon looked up at her quickly, rocking on the backs of his heels. He stared for a long moment, eyes searching hers. “They’re more than claims.”

          “But the northern lords don’t know that,” Sansa replied. “Roose Bolton did an excellent job of covering up Ramsay’s crimes at the Dreadfort.”

          “How d’you know that?”

          “Do you really think Father would’ve done _nothing_ , Jon? Nothing at all, had he heard about what Ramsay was doing?” Sansa tried to mask her frustration. “He’s been torturing people for _years_.”

          Jon paused for a moment, before he sighed. “You’re right.”

          “This will be proof to the northern lords—and to the men of the Vale—that Ramsay Bolton is exactly as murderous, and as treacherous, as we said he is.”

          “You mean they don’t believe Lord Baelish?” Jon asked mildly.

          She looked over at her brother, surprised, although in hindsight she supposed she shouldn’t be. Jon stood up again, but he kept his grip on the half-burnt stick. That fact that she was the taller sibling still felt odd. Growing up, he had been the taller one. And the serious one. But she was more serious now, too.

          “Seeing flayed men with their own eyes will be further proof,” Sansa replied, finally. “It will help us more than Ramsay thinks it’ll hinder us.”

          “Did Lord Baelish tell the lords of the Vale the same tale, the one he told everyone last night?” Jon asked suddenly, frowning up at her. “About you being kidnapped by the Boltons?”

“He did _.” Jon didn’t wait very long at all before bringing that up_ , she thought, almost amused. Sansa realized this had probably been bothering him since last night.

          “Why would he lie?” Jon asked. His frown made the scars on his face lengthen and twist. _He doesn’t understand why anyone would lie to their friends—or to their allies_ , she realized.

          “Because Lord Baelish and I tried to ally with Stannis,” she told him. “By placing me inside the walls, I could let his army into Winterfell when the time came.”

          This was a half-truth, but Jon didn’t need to know that. Sansa told herself that this was for the best. Petyr had intended to use Stannis, a self-righteous piece in this game they were all in. _But Petyr forgot his own advice_ , she thought. _When he told me about Cersei’s flaw…he said she forgets that even the lowliest of pawns can have a will of their own_.  

          Her brother’s expression became almost impossible to read, but she could tell he was thinking about her words carefully.

          “But…why did you do it, Sansa?” He asked her. “Why did you decide to marry a Bolton?”

          “It was a risk, he and I both knew that, but I wanted to avenge our family and reclaim our home,” she replied, trying to keep her expression neutral. “We gambled, and we lost. Stannis gambled and lost. I don’t want this alliance with the Vale to break down because of this mistake we made.”

          Jon thought about it for another moment, before he nodded. “Can we trust him? Lord Baelish?”

          “Yes,” she lied. It hurt less than she thought it would, lying to Jon about the decision to marry her to Ramsay. _But some lies are love_ , she thought. _And this will hold things together, at least for now_. 

          Her brother seemed to accept that. Jon looked like he wanted to ask her something else—something that weighed on him—but he thought better of it at the last moment. He acknowledged her with an affirmative noise, before tossing the stick back into the hearth. It landed with a smack, coughing up a cloud of ash. Sansa had to step back to avoid sucking it all into her lungs. Too late, she hacked and coughed and covered her mouth with a fist.

          “Was there anything else you wanted to ask me, or are you just going to dirty my room some more?”

          Jon shook his head, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry. Anyway, Lady Mormont said that the cooks will fix you somethin’ if you’re hungry.”

          She thanked him, but was impatient until he left. She felt acutely aware of her rumpled and slept-in clothes. Ruan was sitting by the door, calm and wearing a dignified look. He looked in no hurry to leave until she was ready.

 

*

 

          Sansa went to visit the kitchens, where she managed to get a bowl of soup, bread, and a hunk of cheese from the cooks. She’d even been able to get someone to feed the dogs; Thistle and Ruan had followed her all the way from her chambers. They had surprised a servant on the way to the kitchens—when they had all rounded a corner, the man gasped and dropped a basket of linens in surprise.

          Although young, Thistle and Ruan had enormous paws; ones that hinted they were already on their way to becoming even bigger. Sansa could only imagine what she looked like, with two big dogs at her heels. That servant had gathered the newly-soiled linens in a hurry, and he nearly ran to get out of their way. After, and they were alone in the hall again, she had tried to dispatch them.

          “Shoo,” she had said, voice firm. But neither dog seemed too eager to listen to her at that particular moment.

          “Back to Camil, the both of you. Begone,” she had ordered, pointing down the other end of the hall.  That hadn’t worked, either, so she had given up.  

          While Sansa ate, a kitchen boy had placed a bowl of water for the hounds. He laughed when he discovered they could both catch the chunks of meat he tossed their way. Sansa watched him, before she overheard two of the servants talking. A bear had been seen near the keep last night, they said. They were discussing how odd it was; bears never really approached the keep or the palisades, let alone scratched at them. The guards posted nearest to it had been alarmed, to say the least. Perhaps it was feral, someone said. She listened to them debate it for a while; it was as though they forgot she was there. For once, her status as a lady didn’t seem to hinder the openness of the kitchen staff. She had a feeling that Lyanna Mormont preferred such frank attitudes.  

          “The lady sent men into town to warn ‘em, in case it really is feral,” a woman said.

          Sansa wondered what a feral bear would be like, and shuddered. That was a sight she was _not_ keen to see.

          Camil met her in the halls sometime later, and asked Sansa to come with her to the godswood. Lady Mormont was preparing her men and readying supplies, so there was naught else to do but wait around, the older woman reminded her. They should take advantage of the time and meditate for a while. Jon was already there, Camil added; she’d run into Sansa’s brother not too long ago herself. They all had such little time to prepare.

          There was no use in resisting, although Sansa had considered it briefly. At least she’d gotten to eat something; she felt better with some food in her. Sansa followed Camil reluctantly. Following closely behind them, Ruan and Thistle seemed to follow more out of curiosity than anything else. She didn’t really see what they would accomplish today; none of this had borne any fruit. She was a poor warg; she couldn’t even send away two dogs.

          When they arrived in the godswood, Jon was indeed there waiting for them. He looked as impatient as Sansa felt.

          “While we’re doin’ this sitting thing,” he began, clearly annoyed, “We could be—”

          “You could be off roaming the halls, moanin’ about how long these things take, Aye,” Camil replied sharply.

          Sansa would’ve been amused, had she not been more than a little irritated for the same reason. She watched the older woman rolled her eyes at Jon. Her brother protested again, loudly.

          But Camil interrupted him, saying, “You heard the little lady at breakfast, Snow; no one’s to leave the keep until they find that bear. Quit actin’ like a caged beast.”

          Jon shot the woman a look. “I am _not_ a beast,” he said.

          Sansa thought about what he’d told her in her chambers. His wolf dreams. He didn’t want to be called a beast, any more than she did.

          “I apologize,” Camil said, sensing she’d struck a raw nerve.

          “When I was elected Lord Commander, my brothers knew what I was,” Jon replied, after a pause. He’d looked as if he had debated sharing this with them. As if it were too painful to bring up.

          “Some of my brothers called me ‘beastling,’ and ‘changeling,’ and said I wasn’t fit to live, let alone be a commander.”

          Sansa looked at her brother. _They said that about him…and wanted to kill him_? She felt almost dazed. _Because he’s a bastard, and a—a warg?_ She struggled to understand how men he called ‘brothers’ could hate him so much. What would people say about her, when they found out she was a warg, too? Would they call for her death as well? _A gift from the gods should feel like a gift_ , she thought. _Not a curse_.

          “You’ll always have folks who’ll dislike you, even outright hate you, because of what you are,” Camil pointed out. She shrugged, causing her tan muscles to move in the dots of sunlight that streamed through the godswood’s leaves. The clanswoman stretched out her right arm, pointing out a large pink scar on the outer forearm.

          “I got this’un from a lover,” she said, winking at them. “Stabbed me with a skinning knife, he did, the first time he saw me go into an animal.”

          Sansa stared at the pink scar. It was nearly the length of her index finger…if not longer. _A lover did that_? She was curious, but also horrified. Then she thought of the scars on her back and felt her heart pound in her ears. It’d do her no good to think of Ramsay, not now, but she couldn’t help it. Ramsay favored a flaying knife, too.

          “I thought you were married to Einar, that man in your hut with you,” she said. She was trying to distract herself from thoughts about her own scars. The ones on her back, on her thighs, her backside… Sansa felt an almost sickening envy, knowing that the older woman had gotten off so lightly. _She only has the one scar. Lucky her_ , she thought. There was a bitterness in her mouth; it sat heavily on her tongue, jostling around like bile and forcing her to clench her teeth.

          Camil smiled at her question, then couldn’t hold back her laughter. Her plaited braids shook with the force of it. “Aye, but this was years ago; I had to try out a few lovers before I found one who wouldn’t stab me,” she said, grinning, as though this were normal.

          “I think you have more in common with wildlings than you think.” Jon’s voice was serious, but there was laughter in his eyes.

          “Don’t you ever let tha’ big one hear you say it,” Camil warned, “or else he’ll never let me forget it.”

          Jon promised, giving the woman a small smile. Sansa could tell the clanswoman wasn’t being serious. Camil continued as though Jon hadn’t interrupted her, as though he hadn’t teased her and compared her to Tormund, of all wildlings.

          “It takes a while, but there are more who’re able to appreciate our gift compared to those who hate us for it. Or tolerate it, at the very least.”

          That was good to know. Camil’s words were encouraging and, surprisingly, Sansa was in a better mood than when she awoke.

          “But they’ll tolerate you much better if you kin learn how to control it, mind you.” Camil motioned for them to sit, before taking her own place near the roots of the weirwood.

          Sansa imagined it must be easy for the older woman; she wore men’s breeches and looked plenty comfortable on the ground. Before Brienne, Sansa had only ever seen girls wear shift dresses paired with shirts, like the ones Arya had worn when they’d been in King’s Landing together. A lifetime ago. After arranging her skirts, Sansa sat on the ground cross-legged, and watched her brother do the same. Albeit with a few more mutterings about wasted time.

          “Call this a waste all you want, Snow,” Camil said. “It won’t be truly a waste until ye can warg at will.”

          “I don’t know how to do it on purpose…I can only do it in dreams,” he retorted.

          Sansa felt the same way. _Doing this on purpose_? _She might as well ask us to fly, or to mount the tide and ride it to Essos_. It seemed an impossibility. They had seen the older woman give demonstrations, of course. But it was far beyond anything Sansa felt _she_ could do.

          “It’s not in your dreams,” Camil told Jon, as though it were obvious. “It’s in your blood. You can learn to control it.”

          The clanswoman sat before them, calm, and with her hands resting on her knees. A moment later, her eyes rolled back into her head. This was the third—or maybe the fourth—time she’d seen the older woman do this.

          It always surprised Sansa to see it. To her, it looked like something was wrong with Camil. Like it was unintentional. _Would I look the same way if I learn how to do it on my own, while I’m awake_? She asked herself. _It looks almost…painful_.

          They sat in silence for a while, until one of the dogs yipped. Sansa turned in time to see the woman’s wolf appear. Chaika padded into the godswood, amber eyes flashing. The dark-furred wolf looked at the dogs, before sitting at the clanswoman’s side. Chaika was an almost calming presence around them. There was something different about the wolf, and Sansa knew it. But the feeling was hard to articulate. But then the wolf looked up and their eyes met.

 _Warg_.

          The thought came, unbidden. _This must be what Camil meant_ , she thought. _That we can sense one—another warg—when they’re in their beast_.

          Chaika sat beside her warg’s body, still as stone. After a moment, Camil blinked once, then twice, before her eyes returned to normal.

          “Both of you can do this,” Camil said, barely missing a beat. “But cold winds are blowin’ our way, and you must learn quickly.”

          “How long did it take you to learn it? To warg at will?” Sansa asked suddenly. She couldn’t help herself; she needed to know.

          “Years,” the clanswoman replied.

          “We don’t have that kind of time.” Jon’s words held a ring of finality to them.

          Sansa knew that he was right; if the Long Night was truly going to come again, then it was very nearly upon them. _Winter is almost here_ , she thought, not for the first time.

          “Then both of you must learn as fast as you can,” Camil told them, as though it were obvious.

          “What if we can’t find a way to learn in time?” Sansa wanted to know. What if she couldn’t learn anything in time for it to be useful? Or, what if she were less than useless, and it got other people hurt?

          Camil shrugged, although her expression was solemn. “Worst case? It gets you killed, so try to focus more on the learnin’ part.”

          Jon shot the clanswoman a look. “That’s not very encouraging.”

          “There’s a difference between being encouraging and being false, Snow,” Camil replied tartly. “I won’t tell you falsehoods and blow smoke up your ass, but I think you can do it—both of you.”

          Jon looked like he wanted to say something, if only to remark on the colorful epithets she used. Sansa felt a little taken aback as well. This was the first time Camil had expressed any such sentiments. She’d never expressed such confidence in their abilities, those other times they had tried the “sitting thing,” as Jon called it.  

          “Just try and close your eyes, breathe in deeply, then breathe out,” Camil said. “Don’t think about it; do it.”

          This was the same talk as before. She’d told them both how to breathe and encouraged them to “empty” their minds. There was still a niggling fear, somewhere in the back of her mind, that this was all a waste of time. That she wouldn’t be able to learn how to do anything. But Sansa complied regardless.

          She shut her eyes and resisted the urge to sigh; this would be boring, she could already tell. Her hands rested atop her knees, feeling the gathered cloth of her skirts grow damp beneath her palms. Why was she sweating? Sansa thought about it for a moment, somewhat anxiously, before realizing that she’d gotten off track. This was the opposite of a calm or “empty” mind.

          “Dogs are the easiest to bond with, out of all creatures,” Camil said. Her voice was low, yet confident, threading the air around them and imbuing it with a calm energy. “They’ve lived beside us, and they welcome us in their minds, like we welcomed their ancestors at our hearth. They’ll always be loyal, no matter what…they won’t hurt you.”

 _That’s right…they’re not dogs like Ramsay’s girls_. The thought came to her unprompted, unwanted, and a surge of anxiety flowed behind it. _There’s nothing welcoming about those dogs_. _Nothing_. She remembered what it sounded like, the baying of Ramsay’s hounds behind her, echoing as she ran blindly into the forest. She remembered the fear.

          Forcing herself to stop thinking about Ramsay and his dogs was difficult. So instead, Sansa tried to focus on her breathing. She tried to think about something else. Anything else.  Like Ruan and Thistle in front of her. _They’re not like Ramsays’ girls_ , she told herself. _They’re not_. _They’re like me_ … _and Jon, too. A_ _brother and sister_. _They only have each other_.

          When she looked at the two dogs, Sansa saw them sitting before her. They were silent and still; it was as though they could tell this was important. Ruan and Thistle were watching her with curiosity.  

          She was looking at two dogs one moment, but the next, she saw only one dog—and it was right next to her. Glancing at the tree, she saw herself. Her body. Sansa was a spectator of herself, and the realization was dizzying. Her eyes—her body’s eyes—were white. Sansa jerked her head back in surprise and…then she fell over. She felt her body hit the ground. Hard. Pain surged down her limbs, briefly, before it was gone as quickly as it came.

          When she opened her eyes again, Sansa looked down at herself. She was still sitting cross-legged, in the same position as before, with her legs threatening to fall asleep on her. Across from where she sat, Ruan was looking down at Thistle, who had fallen onto her flank. The dog wriggled for a moment, as though surprised—but pleased regardless—about her sudden position in the dirt. Sansa watched her. Thistle made snuffling noises and rolled onto her back, as if to say that she was quite content where she was, dirt and all.

          “Shit, I missed it—which one o’ you did that?” Camil was looking back and forth between the two of them; her expression was one of mild vexation.

          Sansa felt her heart beat loud in her ears. _I did it_ , she thought. _That was me_. She was too dazed to be mad at the older woman for missing it. There were stars at the edge of her vision, and she was breathing as though she’d just run across the keep. _That’s what it’s supposed to feel like?_

          “Did what?” Jon’s mouth twisted into a frown. He looked between Sansa and Camil as though he didn’t know what to expect next, and that lack of knowledge left him on edge.

          Sansa looked down at her hands, pale against the green fabric of her dress. Her hands gripped her knees so tightly that the knuckles were white _. It really was me_ , she thought. When she looked up, Camil was watching her.

          “I think it was me,” she told the older woman, after a pause. “I was…looking at myself. It felt like a dream.”

          “You were in one of ‘em,” Camil replied. “I felt you in there. What drew you back out?”

          “I…she fell over,” she explained.

          “I s’pose that’ll do it.”

          “What do you mean?”

          Camil was watching Thistle, who was still wriggling happily on the ground. The significantly-dirtier hound was looking up at her brother Ruan, tongue lolling. “You can experience their pain when you’re riding them, and it can force you back into your own skin,” the clanswoman said.

          Jon was looking at the pair of dogs, silent. Sansa couldn’t tell what was on his mind.

          “Can I…call them to me too, without meaning to?” she asked.

          “Yes,” Camil answered with a nod, quite serious. “Have they ever shown up when they weren’t supposed to?”

          “Last night, I was feeling…upset,” Sansa replied, nodding. She wanted to ask about it now, because pretending it never happened would do her no good.

          “Upset? Why were you upset?” They were both looking at her, but Jon was the one who asked.

          “I was thinking about Ramsay,” Sansa lied. “And somehow, Thistle knew to come to me. She found me in the godswood, and then Ruan met me in the corridors. They stayed with me all night.”

          “It was like they were guarding her,” Jon added. He knew quite well how serious Thistle had been, and he flashed the playful dog a suspicious look.

          “Animals can feel your emotions when they’re strong; it’s part of the bond,” Camil said. She was stroking the dark fur of her wolf absently, as though mulling it over. “They can feel when you’re upset, or scared, and they’ll respond to you.”

 _But I couldn’t send them away_ , Sansa wanted to say. _I suppose I really am a warg, but I’m a terrible one_.

          When Sansa said nothing, Camil turned to look at Jon. “And you haven’t felt any connection with either beast?” she asked.

          Jon shook his head. “I haven’t, and I feel like you’re about to scold me for it.”

          “Nah, I’ll not treat you like a child; I’d only hoped that you would each pick one, and bond to it,” Camil said. The clanswoman tugged on a braid absently, rolling the end of it between a thumb and forefinger, lost in thought as she looked at Sansa.  

          “It seems they’ve both taken to you.”

          Sansa was convinced that, if the older woman had a small beard like Petyr’s, she’d be stroking it now. The absurdity of the image almost made her laugh, but she held it back.

          “I guess so,” she replied, shrugging. There was no reason to doubt the other woman’s words. Sansa still believed that her bond with the dogs was not very strong at all. She couldn’t command them to do anything at all. Thistle and Ruan did as they pleased.

          “I s’pose your bond with your direwolf is stronger, even when you’re leagues apart,” Camil told Jon.

          He agreed. Sensing an opportunity, Jon brought up his wolf dream from the night before. Camil listened intensely as Jon described it. He spoke in as much detail as he had the first time Sansa heard it. The clanswoman listened patiently to Jon, but her expression grew darker as Jon mentioned the flayed men along the Kingsroad.

          Camil spat upon the ground when he’d finished his tale. “Butcherin’ bastard,” she swore.

          Jon reacted as though he’d been struck, and his mouth jerked to one side with the unintended sting of it.

          “Of course I don’t mean you, Snow,” she replied. “You have to tell Lady Mormont. And I have to send a raven to Lord Wull about this.”

          “Must I?” Jon’s expression looked pained. _He doesn’t want other people to know what he is_ , Sansa thought. She didn’t know what it was like to struggle with being a warg _and_ a bastard at the same time—being a warg was difficult enough.

          “Never lie to them about what you are,” Camil warned. “It’ll only breed distrust and dislike o’ you—and as a military commander, you know better’n me how much disorder that distrust can lead to.”  

          “You’re right.” Jon was almost surprised by that revelation.

          Camil looked down at her wolf. “They’ll find out what you are, whether you tell ‘em or not,” she said to Jon, though she kept her eyes on the dark-furred Chaika. “So, it’s best to come clean about it sooner, lest they feel betrayed.”

          Men who felt they couldn’t trust their lord wouldn’t follow him, Sansa knew. Lords with wavering loyalties would betray or abandon him before long. _He’s already a bastard, and people still think they’re untrustworthy_ , she thought. _I used to think so, too_. She’d tried so hard to be the little lady her mother wanted. She had looked up to the Lady of Winterfell so much that she’d even adopted her mother’s disdain for Jon. It felt like a thousand years ago, but the memory pained her still.

 

*

 

          They spoke in the godswood for a while longer before Camil let them go. She told them she preferred to send a raven to her lord sooner, rather than later. The clanswoman also offered to have both dogs kenneled overnight. It would be for the best, since she still lacked control, Camil had told her. It didn’t take long at all before Sansa agreed. She didn’t need more whispers about her than necessary. If she could help it.

          The rest of the afternoon found Sansa walking along the gallery atop the wooden ramparts. Aside from the waterfall, which they’d seen on their way up, all Sansa could see of the island was forest, with the odd outcroppings of rock and a few thatched roofs. The guards who patrolled said nothing to her, although one joked within her hearing about the bear from last night, suggesting it was seeking its maiden fair. She wasn’t cold, but she shivered all the same.

          Dinner was a less lively affair than the night before. Jon had sent ravens out after a talk with Lady Mormont. Camil didn’t know her letters, but she had pressed Jon into writing one for her to send back to Wull’s keep. She and Ser Davos spoke over dinner about it, while the grey-whiskered lord offered to teach her to read, if she wished. Sansa didn’t hear her answer, but instead turned her attention to her brother discussing supply wagons and the status of the Mormont armory with the tiny bear. They discussed the harvest, too, and how much food Bear Island had set aside for winter—a fifth in all, Lyanna said—and whether that would be enough. 

          After dinner, Sansa wasn’t followed, by either dogs or people. She retired to her chamber and found the hearth fire already lit. The night air grew colder than the last, and it seemed as if the fire itself shivered. When accepting Camil’s offer to kennel the dogs for the night, Sansa had realized her toes would be significantly colder without a dog at her feet. _It’s for the best_ , she thought, not for the first time today.

          There was a soft knock at the door.

          It could only be one person at this hour, she knew. But Sansa crossed the room and opened the door anyway. Petyr stood before her, wearing a small, apologetic smile.

          “Good evening my lady,” he said. “May I have a word?”

          “Can it wait?” Sansa craned her neck and looked out into the hallway, glancing down each side of the corridor. He was alone. She figured that he’d wait until there was no chance of being spotted by servants or their traveling companions, but it was better to be certain.

          “I’ve come to apologize,” Petyr admitted. His voice was low, as though they might still be overheard.

           _Do the walls have ears, now_? She wondered, somewhat amused. At the same time, she appreciated his discretion; it was far too late to be seen entertaining male company. And if Jon were to find him…it wouldn't end well. Sansa backed away from the door.

          When he entered, Petyr peered around as though a dog was skulking about in a predatory pause, ready to strike.

          “They’re not in my chambers, have no fear,” Sansa remarked drily. Petyr flashed her an embarrassed look as he closed her door behind him. He joined her as she sat at the table in the corner but, Petyr didn't take a seat beside her.

          “I’d like to apologize for my thoughtless behavior,” he said. Standing before her, Petyr held his arms behind him and looked contrite.

           _He has the talent for looking sorry over what he’s done_ , she thought to herself. But she was not quite convinced. She was not turning him out, either.

          “I should have told you that I’d spun a different tale for your cousin’s vassals.” His mouth was twisted with regret.  

          “Yes, you should have,” she replied shortly. Sansa crossed her arms and waited for him to continue.  

          Petyr’s expression looked pained for a moment before he went on, “I admit it’s because I’m not used to having someone to—”

          “Someone to what, Petyr?” she demanded. “Someone to be a part of your schemes, but who isn’t murdered afterward? I’m sure it’s a rare thing.”

          Petyr flinched as though she’d slapped him. “I’m not used to having someone as involved as you are,” he admitted, finally. “Someone to plan with.”

          “Oh yes, you’re used to bragging about your genius to those you think are inferior,” she replied. “Am I still the silly little girl you met in King’s Landing? The one you told that life is not a song?”

          “You’re not, I know you’re not.” Petyr’s voice was certain, and his expression was one of hurt. His hands were still clasped behind his back.  

          “I’m not a silly piece in your game?”

          His frown deepened. “No, I—no, you’re not a piece, Sansa. Even if you might have been, you are so much more.”

          “Then don’t treat me that way again. If we tell conflicting tales, Petyr, then this alliance will unravel,” she told him, as though it weren’t obvious.

          “It won’t fall apart,” he replied. “I promised I would get you home, Sansa. Let me make good on that promise.”

          “Do you mean to keep me in the dark the entire time, then?”

          “No,” Petyr replied, shaking his head. “After what you’ve been through because of me, I didn’t want to burden you with more lies—”

          “Besides the ones we’ve already told together, you mean?” she interrupted. “I’m already involved, Petyr. It serves no purpose to keep these things from me.”

          “…You’re right.”

          The simplicity of his words gave her pause. Gave them both pause. He seemed almost as surprised by that revelation as she was.  

          “I should have told you,” Petyr continued. “I’m just…not used to this.” He tugged at his pointed beard thoughtfully, his gaze focused inward.

          “Not used to what?”

          “To wanting to share things like this with someone, anyone else…being open about these things,” he finished, looking over at her once more.

          “You shared quite a few of your plots with my Aunt Lysa,” Sansa pointed out, raising an eyebrow. Was this another one of his lies, to make her feel more at ease?

          “Out of necessity,” Petyr said. The line of his mouth grew thinner, and his expression looked almost…displeased. “When she learned that Jon Arryn planned to send Robin to be Stannis’ ward on Dragonstone, your Aunt Lysa came to me and begged for a way to stop him, to keep Robin by her side. Lysa was incredibly dangerous when she was desperate, Sansa.”

          “I am aware,” she replied, feeling her voice tight in her throat. She remembered just how desperate her aunt had been, worried that her husband no longer loved her. Or had never loved her at all. _And she was right_ , Sansa thought. _In her own mad way, she was right_. She had felt her aunt’s desperation, even through the mask of her fury, as she accused her niece of being a slattern.  

          Suddenly, Petyr lowered himself to his knees. He held his arms loosely at his sides for balance. When he looked up at her, his expression was rueful. Hopeful.

          “Please let me make it up to you, Sansa. I promise I won’t leave you in the dark again.”

           _I don’t have a problem with the dark_ , she thought. _It’s the false promises and outright lies_. But she appreciated the initiative he took, kneeling before her like this.

          “We want the same thing, Petyr, remember that. There’s no reason to keep me from helping you.”

          “You are absolutely right,” he replied. His words sounded sincere.

          Sansa regarded him closely, looking at the almost-pouting curve to his lips, the lines at the corners of his eyes. She wanted to trust him again. Deep down, she knew she did. “So…what did you have in mind, about making it up to me?” Admittedly, she was curious.

          Instead of replying, Petyr lowered himself, to press a kiss to one of her boots. Then he undid their laces and tugged off her boots. Sansa pointed her toes to assist him, interested in what he would do next. Petyr pulled on the soft wool of her socks, exposing her feet to air of her chambers. He gathered her pale foot in both hands and began to gently massage the muscles there.

          “Oh,” she said, surprised—and pleased—by his actions. Soreness she didn’t know she carried in her foot was brought to the surface, before dissipating under his soft ministrations.  

          Petyr smiled up at her, upon hearing the wonder in her voice. “Does it feel good, Sansa?”

          “Yes,” she answered, feeling knots loosen. When her foot is wondrously free of tension, she wiggles her toes. Petyr laughs, his grey-green eyes mirroring his delight.

          He moved to her other foot, giving it equal attentions. His hands were gentle and warm around her pale skin. A few long moments passed in silence, save the occasional pops and cracks of the burning logs in the hearth. When he finished, Sansa wiggled those toes as a signal. _Marvelous_ , she thought. Petyr let her foot slip from his grasp as he smiled up at her.

          “May I have your permission to do more, Sansa?” He inclined his head in the direction of her bed.

          “Yes, I’d…I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the books, Janos Slynt uses Jon's warg status against him when running for the position of Lord Commander. Unfortunately, even after he's beheaded, those lies linger and fester. I'd argue that it makes it easier for the mutineers to reconcile their decision to murder Jon, as "proof" that he's closer to the wildlings than he is to their sacred institution.
> 
> Fun fact: the expression "blow smoke up your ass" has been used since the 1700s, and was a reference to the procedure used to try and revive drowning victims. A little bellows was filled with tobacco smoke, which someone then blew, and it pumped tobacco smoke up the bum. This was thought to be able to expel water from their lungs.


	10. Ursa Minor

It was a massage. Sansa was surprised that _this_ was what he’d had in mind, but perhaps Petyr was trying to show that he wouldn’t push too hard. He sat beside her on the bed but was curiously silent. His expression was difficult for her to read; it contained a mix of seriousness and…something else. Something Sansa couldn’t quite identify.

          “May I help you with your laces?” he asked.

          “If you want,” she replied. Suddenly, she felt self-conscious. Tense. He had an infuriating way of looking at her sometimes, as though he could see right under her clothing. Petyr touched her wrist and Sansa flinched. The touch was expected, but she recoiled nonetheless. She looked back up at him and the lines around his eyes seemed deeper.  

          “It is all right, Sansa,” he said, giving her a sympathetic look. “I only want to do what feels good for you.”

          His voice was quiet. Comforting. He must’ve seen her fidgeting; she was distinctly uncomfortable with being the only one to disrobe. Her heart was beating far too loudly. She tried to force herself to settle down, even as Petyr began undoing the laces. His fingers danced over her own, briefly, before he tugged at the ties clustered at the hems of her sleeves. Undoing several, he parted the fabric and brought her hand up to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist. She felt tendrils of warmth jump up her arm. It would take a while for her to forget how strange this felt—softness instead of roughness—even with the prickling of Petyr’s beard. To forget the imprints of marital life that still covered her body. There were many. Some remained sore to the touch. Sansa took a moment to appreciate a touch that was so much softer.

          The laces came undone with gentle tugs, but it was enough to wrench Sansa away from those thoughts. Petyr pulled her sleeves off tenderly. When he reached up to do the same with the ties at her collar, and his fingers brushed against her exposed neck, she shivered. The muscles in her neck tensed. He must’ve felt it, because he spoke up.

          “I don’t want to hurt you, sweetling. If anything becomes too much for you, please tell me,” Petyr reminded her.

          Sansa felt foolish. She was behaving like such a skittish creature, when, not even two moons ago, she’d demanded he eat her cunny in a ruined brothel. _Is it because he’s undressing me himself_? _Or because I don’t know what will come next_? She couldn’t be sure.

          “What if I asked you to stop?” she asked suddenly. “If I asked you to stop right now, and that you take your leave?”

          Petyr pulled his hands away and sat back. In shadow, his eyes looked dark with his back to the hearth fire. When he looked up at her, his expression was concerned. “Then I will stop,” he replied. “If you feel overwhelmed, I won’t be offended, Sansa. Truly.”

          “I needed to be sure,” Sansa tried to explain, suddenly feeling clumsy. The words sank like stones against her tongue. “I want to continue, but I just…”

          “Believe me, sweetling, I understand,” Petyr reassured her.

          Satisfied with that, she reached up to finish with the fastenings at her collar herself. Petyr leaned back and watched her. When that was done, he helped her with the back of her dress. She felt those clever fingers working quickly. He parted her dress, pulling it open down the middle of her back. Fabric slid down to gather and bunch at her waist. The cold air hit her exposed skin like a lance to a mark, and Sansa shivered again. As though he anticipated it, Petyr stilled her with a touch to her shoulder. She felt her heartbeat in her ears. It masked all other sounds, Sansa was almost certain he could feel her hammering pulse against his fingertips. Exhaling in a long, slow breath, Sansa waited for his reaction to the mess that was her back. He’d seen it before. It wasn’t a sight easily ignored.

          Over a dozen scars marred her back in fitful patterns. From what she’d seen in her reflection, it would not be pretty, even when her back was fully healed. Petyr’s expression was unreadable when she turned her head to look at him. His eyes were dark, probing, as he took in the canvas of Ramsay’s design.  

          “Oh, Sansa…” he breathed, finally. “I will always be sorry for the pain you suffered because of me.”

          “I know you are.” She wondered if he would feel regret every time he looked at her naked back. It wasn’t a sight to inspire romantic desire. Of that, she was certain.

          She felt his touch at her shoulders, resting there. Letting her get used to the sensation. He kneaded the area at the base of her neck, and above her collarbone, in an attempt to soothe her. Petyr directed her movement and guided her to lie down. Sansa followed his motions and shifted on the bed. It felt odd, being half-clothed on the bed with Petyr beside her, and in a position where she couldn’t see him easily. _I want to do this_ , she thought. _If I could just relax_. Even so, she couldn’t stop herself from flinching when she felt him touch her upper back, like a reflex of a hand too close to a flame. Petyr reacted immediately. He clasped her shoulder in sympathy and waited. His thumb stroked near her collar and waited for her to calm down, for her body to grow accustomed to the touch.

          “I’m sorry for asking you to speak with your brother,” Petyr said. When he spoke up, his voice sounded apologetic. “If you want me to talk to Jon, then I will do so.”

          “There’s no need. I already talked with Jon, and he understands,” she told him, shaking her head. She felt her chin rub against her forearm.

          “He threw his lot in with Stannis too,” Petyr said. “I heard a rumor that Stannis wanted to legitimize him, pardon him from the Night’s Watch, and use him to rally the North.”

          Sansa frowned. Jon had told her about Stannis’ victory at the Wall, about his red priestess and the visions she saw in the flames. But Jon neglected to tell her about Stannis’ offer. “Do you think he’ll declare himself a Stark without Stannis?” she asked.

          “And try to seize Winterfell for himself? He’d be a fool if he attempted it,” Petyr answered, as his expression grew thoughtful. “I heard he refused Stannis, though…so perhaps he’ll return to the Wall afterwards, with his wildling friends.”

          She hadn’t given any thought what came later, after they confronted Ramsay and tried to retake Winterfell. There were quite a few potential outcomes, after all. _Will Jon go back to the Wall_? She wondered. _I don’t know how he can defend the Wall from Winterfell_.

          “If Jon does go back to the Wall, that would make me…”

          “The Lady of Winterfell,” Petyr finished for her. “As you should be.”

          If that happened, it would all be because of Petyr’s help. Sansa knew that. She fought the urge to look at him, before pillowing her head on her arms once more. Petyr continued. He began to knead the muscles of her shoulders, her upper back. His touch was careful to move around her scars. Most were still in different stages of healing—they formed a network of tight, pink weals stretched across her frame. The stitches Ramsay had laid into her would not be so easily undone. Sansa thought of Camil and the scar she’d showed them this afternoon. That scar had been the size of any one of hers. A scar given by a lover because the clanswoman was a warg.

          “I’d like to apologize too, Petyr,” she told him, speaking around her arms.

          “For what?”

          “For calling Thistle to me. Last night, I mean,” Sansa replied. “I didn’t mean to.”

          “I know you didn’t,” he said. His tone was calm. Understanding. “There was no harm done.”

          “I asked Camil about it today,” she confessed. “She said the animals can feel our emotions when they’re particularly strong.”

          There was a pause. It lasted only for a moment. She felt Petyr’s fingers continue to rub soothing circles on her upper back.

          “I suppose I’d best be careful not to upset you then,” he replied. She could hear the smile in his voice.

          “Consider that your warning.” She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding; it sounded almost like a laugh. It meant a lot to her that Petyr accepted this part of her. Especially after traveling with Camil and seeing how others gave the woman a wide berth.

          “Or you’ll have her bite my rump?” Petyr asked.

          She grinned into her arms. “Exactly.”

          They lapsed into a comfortable silence while Petyr worked. His hands kneaded the muscles around her shoulder blades, and slowly Sansa felt the tension drain from her back. There were still areas that were inflamed and raw. At one point, Petyr accidentally strayed too close to an especially tender spot, causing Sansa to start. Surprised, she sucked air in between clenched teeth, even as he began to apologize profusely.

          “Forgive me Sansa, I didn’t—”

           “I know you didn’t mean to,” she told him, cutting off his stream of beg-pardon’s.

          “You should visit Lady Mormont’s maester before we leave,” he suggested above her. Sansa didn’t bother to turn around and look at him.

          “Perhaps I will.”

          Petyr let the subject drop after that, before he continued to knead and massage around the middle of her back. _At least he is diligent_ , she thought wryly. Then she gave herself over to the sensations, feeling as her muscles became a putty under his hands. “I wish I had some oil,” he murmured. “A few drops would help you relax and leave your skin softer. I usually have some…”

          “In your brothels, you mean?” she asked lightly. He couldn’t see her minute smile, pressed into her arms as it was.  

          “Among other things, yes,” he agreed.

          When she turned to look at him, Petyr pulled his hands away to accommodate her movements. On her side now, she could tell he was looking at her breasts—heavy, bouncing, and free of restriction. She expected him to touch them, to grab them, or to—to bite them. Her thoughts faltered at that; there were bite marks still healing on the curve of one breast. She hoped he would not bite them.

          Instead, Petyr let out an impatient huff before twirling his finger, indicating she turn back around. He grinned and said, “I’m not finished yet, sweetling.”

          “Oh.” She felt she should say something else, but nothing came to mind. Sansa turned back around and laid down again, letting him continue. By the time Petyr reached her lower back, she felt marvelous. As his hands slowed, Sansa felt his touch at the small of her back. He used his knuckles to press and rub gently, before growing firmer in the spot just above her backside.

          A half-moan of pleasure escaped her lips before she realized it. She flushed with embarrassment, feeling a wave of heat rush to her cheeks and neck.

          “I take it you enjoyed that, my lady?” Petyr asked innocently. His knuckles pressed into that same area again. In response, she felt a jolt of lightning down her spine, and her rear muscles clenched involuntarily. He must’ve felt it, because he chuckled a moment later.

          “No need to sound so smug, Lord Baelish,” she replied. Sansa rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see her. If he was going to return to formalities, so too would she.

          “Me, smug? Never.”

          She grinned into her arms, tempted to roll her eyes again. When his hands stilled, resting on the small of her back, Sansa turned her head to look at him.

          “How do you feel?” he asked.

          “I feel…better,” she murmured, not quite surprised by that. Sansa couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done something like this for her. _Maybe when I was younger, at Winterfell_ , she thought to herself. She was certain that only family had ever done this for her. It was…nice.

          “Thank you, Petyr.”

          “It was my pleasure,” he assured her.

          Sitting up, the first thing Sansa noticed was that Petyr’s eyes went to her breasts again. Then she saw the tent his breeches made from his erection. When she raised an eyebrow in his direction, he merely shrugged.

          “You were expecting something in return?” she asked, feeling disappointed. Sansa thought that, if this was his attempt at an apology, it was a poor one. A cheap and convenient tactic to steal under her skirts.

          “What? No, no, I didn’t—” Petyr’s eyes widened, and he shook his head emphatically. He covered his lap with his hands. Pausing for a moment, he looked as though he were gathering his thoughts. “This was unintentional, Sansa, I swear it.”

           _Is he saying he finds it difficult to control himself around me?_ That was even worse. To her, it felt like an obvious—and often ill-used—excuse. Something that men said to explain why they did some of the truly terrible things they did to women. “Are you asking for permission to use it?”

          “No,” he replied immediately, “I meant only that being here, with you, is more than I could have hoped for. You’re beautiful.”

          She laughed in his face.

          “Liar,” she declared, the words tumbling cruelly from her lips. “My face, yes, but that’s not true about the rest of me.” _Not anymore_.

          The hurt and concern in his features did nothing to soften the edges of her bitterness. There was no going back to the past, she knew. Back to a time when she felt whole.

          “It’s true to me,” Petyr insisted. He clasped her hand and held it gently in both of his. “Your beauty is undiminished, and you have courage, too…especially for letting anyone near enough to touch you ever again.”

          “You’re just saying that to get the rest of my clothes off,” she said, her tone bordering petulance. Inwardly, she felt almost something akin to relief. She supposed that she might always be sensitive to the way her back looked—or would look when it was fully-healed.

          “Absolutely not,” he replied. “I only ask for the opportunity to spend the night here, nothing more.”

          “And be seen scuttling out of my chambers by a servant at dawn?”

          “I am hardly a crab,” Petyr pointed out. “And no, I won’t be seen. You have my word.”

          Sansa thought about it for a moment, or at least she pretended to. She tapped her chin with a thoughtful finger as though weighing her options. In truth, she just liked to make him wait. “Fine,” she said at last. “You can stay. But first…”

          Petyr quirked an eyebrow at her as she trailed off.

          “First, I want you to put on a show for me,” Sansa told him, “with that.” She pointedly looked down at the outline of his cock in his breeches. When she looked back up at him, Petyr’s expression was one of eagerness.

          He smiled at her and said, “Sweetling, it would be my pleasure.”

          “It _is_ your pleasure.” She wanted to watch him touch himself, and she would enjoy it. Sansa put a hand on her hip. “Now, undress. Please.”

          Petyr’s lips curled into a sly grin.

 

*

 

          When Sansa awoke the next morning, the first thing she felt was warmth enveloping her comfortably. Then she realized that there was an arm wrapped around her waist. Tight and possessive.

           _Ramsay_!

          She jolted awake. Crying out in fear, Sansa shot up like an arrow, and, in the process, dislodged the arm around her. By the time she looked down at the bed’s other occupant, Petyr was already awake and looking at her. She blinked back the sting of tears…or she tried to, at least. Sansa felt fat tears tremble at the corners of her eyes before they spilled over both cheeks. Her breath was coming out in short, ragged sobs.

          “Shh, Sansa,” he whispered, reaching out to touch her hand. “It’s okay—it’s me, Petyr. I’m here.”

          She felt her chest rise and fall rapidly, as though she’d just leapt out of bed and dashed down the hall in terror. For a moment, she’d really thought that it was Ramsay in bed with her. The mere thought of it made her shiver.

          When she didn’t pull away from him, Petyr pulled her back down into the bed and wrapped his arms around her tightly. “It’s me,” he said again. “I won’t hurt you. I’m here.”

          “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered hastily. When she laid her head against his shoulder, Sansa felt him stroke her hair, smoothing it. A heavy feeling of dread sat at the center of her chest. She felt as though it was pressing down into her, even as her terror subsided. _Ramsay’s not here, I’m safe_. The thought echoed through her skull. She swallowed heavily. Wet tears darkened the front of his already-crumpled tunic, but he didn’t seem to notice.

          “You don’t have to apologize, Sansa…”

          He was rubbing her back—gently, always gently—while her breathing slowed. By the time Sansa’s tears had stopped, Petyr’s tunic clung fast to her cheek. He murmured softly to her and reassured her that she was safe. When she looked up at him, Sansa saw the concern in his features, the lines of his brow. But he also seemed…unused to this position. She willed herself to gather her emotions. It was far too early to worry about Ramsay and his designs for her.

          After a few long moments, Petyr spoke up. “Do you feel a bit better?”

          “A little, yes.” She paused, looking down at his tunic, and the scar that crept up to his collarbone. “Did you hate every Stark, after what my uncle did to you?”

          Petyr exhaled thoughtfully. She could tell he hadn’t expected such a question. Not now, at least. Maybe never.

          “No,” he said at last. His breath caught in his throat when she slid a hand up to touch it. The scarred flesh was puckered, and it looked raw as a scraped dinner bone. He covered her hand with his. “I could never hate you, Sansa.”

          The world seemed lighter when he said it.

          He drew their hands away from his chest, his scar, and kissed the hollows of her knuckles. That made her smile, small and shaky as it was. Petyr leaned forward and brushed away the remnants of her tears with a thumb. “Sansa, I hope—” he looked away from her, and his voice grew softer. “I hope you feel safe, when you’re with me.”

          “I do feel safer,” she replied. “I’m glad you’re here.”

          He met her eyes again. This was the first time she’d ever calmed down so quickly, after a nightmare or something else, when something happened while she was awake. Brienne and Podrick had heard her screaming a few times, on the way to Castle Black. They pretended not to hear, though the older woman had pulled her aside and asked her about her night terrors. Her waking terrors. She hadn’t wanted to tell Brienne.

          “I will be here whenever you want me to be,” Petyr murmured, kissing her crown softly. “Although I am glad no one heard you, else we’d be in a predicament.”

          “I suppose so,” she agreed. “I—I couldn’t help myself. I just thought you were—”

          “You don’t have to say it,” he said. “I know, sweetling. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

          “Did you ever have…nightmares, after your duel?”

          Petyr’s expression grew more serious at that. “Every night for almost a year. Even after he died.”

 

*

 

They had caught the bear, the Mormont master-at-arms announced at the breakfast table. He said it as casually as if he’d asked for the salt cellar. Ser Knell said that the villagers in town had caught it, and that it hadn’t been feral after all. But when he got into details about skinning and something he called “bear grease,” Sansa tried to tune him out. She focused her attention on her food, and then on the soot spots on the rafters and inside of the roof. The fireplace in the hall must be new, she realized. Or there weren’t enough people in her household to do it. When she heard the master-at-arms make a comment about tanning the animal’s hide, she bit the inside of her cheek.

          Lady Lyanna must’ve seen her make a face, because she quickly assured Sansa that this was commonplace occurrence. The ten-year-old’s thoughtful expression, couched in furs, made Sansa feel better. Despite her harsh words at their first meeting, she found herself beginning to like the tiny little Mormont.

          Ser Knell was not the only one to make an announcement. The tiny lady also used the meal as an opportunity to say that the Mormont men—and their provisions—would be ready to leave at first light the next day. The town’s fishermen believed the weather would be mild, as well.

          Petyr sat nearer to the end of the table, but when she looked up, she noticed he was looking at her. Perhaps he’d been watching her for longer than she’d realized. No, that was a foolish idea. She dismissed it immediately. _He’d never be so stupid as to moon at me over the breakfast table_.

          After breakfast, Sansa met with Camil and Jon in the godswood, where outside sounds faded away within the cluster of trees. Now more than ever she felt as though the old gods watched her with a thousand unseen eyes.

          Both hounds were in the godswood with them as well, she saw, but Chaika was not. The clanswoman’s wolf was elsewhere, she told the siblings, because the dogs annoyed her after too long. They settled in to do the sitting thing, even though Jon debated the usefulness of the exercise given his direwolf’s absence. When Camil pointed out that a full warg can enter their animal from leagues away, he quieted. Sansa settled, tailor-style, at the base of the heart tree. The roughness of the bark against her back was uncomfortable, but somehow reassuring at the same time.

          Today it took twice as long before that same feeling overtook her. But, sure enough, she found herself looking at her own body from inside Ruan. Her success lasted for a few moments, before she blinked and found herself back in her own body. Camil’s praise was brief, before bidding Sansa to do it again.

 

*

 

Later, Sansa had been walking throughout the keep, to pass some time before dinner. There persisted a strong smell of earth, even in these halls. Earth and occasional gusts of mountainous air. In one hallway, she stumbled upon a giant stuffed bear that perched on a platform. The bear was impossible to ignore, given its size. Mounted on a wooden platform on its hind legs, massive forepaws lashing out, it seemed an embodiment of the Mormont sigil and their house’s words. _Here we stand_.

          “Lady Stark?”

          The sudden voice took her by surprise. Startled, Sansa whirled around. Lady Mormont stood looking up at her with a curious expression.

          “May I speak with you for a moment?” The dark-haired girl seemed suddenly shy.

          Glancing around them, Sansa noticed that the hallway was otherwise empty. “Of course, Lady Mormont,” she replied.

          “Call me Lyanna,” the tiny bear offered.

          “Only if you’ll call me Sansa,” she agreed. That earned her a smile. She noticed that Lyanna’s smile was as small as the rest of her.

          “Yes, Sansa.” Lyanna paused, as though trying to find the words. “May I show you something?” she asked, finally.

          “Of course.” Sansa smiled good-naturedly at her, although inwardly she was concerned. Whatever it was, Lyanna seemed eager to be away from prying eyes—or ears. _Why does she want to speak with me in private_? She wondered. Lyanna led Sansa down a pair of hallways, until they reached a large wooden door with an austere iron latch.

          “The lord’s chambers,” she told Sansa. “I was moved into them after my mother and sister marched south with Robb.”  

          “Your sister?” Sansa searched through her mind for names. She did not remember ever meeting Lyanna’s elder sister. Lady Maege Mormont had visited Winterfell once, when she was a young child, but those memories were hazy as though shielded by a thin membrane. Lady Maege had been a tall but broad woman and had even sparred with her father in the yard.

          “Dacey. She was as strong as any fighting lord,” Lyanna told her, expression suddenly earnest. The girl’s eyes had a faraway look, as though she could only see the past before her. “Dacey was tall was just as strong as Mother.”

          Sansa fell silent at that. She hadn’t realized that they’d both lost a sibling _and_ their mothers at the Twins. “I am sorry for your loss, Lyanna,” she said, finally.

          “Thank you.” The dark-haired girl nodded, before she pulled on the large door handle. It swung open with a loud groan. Inside, the chambers looked like they belonged to anyone but a ten-year-old child. An old hunting tapestry and impressive pairs of antlers decorated the walls, while an enormous bear rug sat before the hearth. She wondered who had owned these trophies before the child in front of her, and just how many times ownership of these chambers had changed in a few short years.

          She pulled out a bundle of green cloth, holding it out to Sansa. It was wrinkled and a little dusty, but Sansa realized it was a dress. A large dress, judging by the amount of fabric.

          “I’d like you to have this,” Lyanna said. “It belonged to Dacey.”

          “I—I can’t take your sister’s dress,” Sansa said, her voice coming out strangely to her own ears. “You should wear it yourself when you grow into it.” As soon as Sansa began to stammer her polite rejections, Lyanna shook her head to cut her off. She pressed the fabric into Sansa’s hands.

          “I noticed you only have two dresses,” Lyanna replied. “Take it as a gift. Your half-brother spoke with me yesterday, and he told me about you. About both of you bein’ wargs.”

          Sansa looked down sharply at the girl. She felt a fist clench somewhere in the middle of her chest, heavy with sudden apprehension.

          “Dacey always said that Mormont women are skin changers, and mate with bears. I don’t think it’s true,” she said, her small face a mixture of searching and sadness. “But I wanted to say that, to me, it just means the blood o’ the First Men flows through your veins. Same as mine.”

          She flashed the girl a small smile and said, “Thank you. This is all very new to me, and I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

          “They say you do know how to sew,” Lyanna pointed out.

          Sansa nodded. What did sewing have to do with skin changers and wargs?

          “My maester says that sewing takes time to learn, and practice.”

          “It does,” she told Lyanna.

          “You’ll probably get good at doin’ warg stuff with practice, just like sewing. But, I was wondering…would you…” Lyanna looked down at the floor, suddenly shy. “Would you be willing to teach me? To sew, I mean. We have no septa here, and Maester Hellebore can only stitch up wounds.”

          That took her by surprise. This fierce little girl was asking to learn to sew? When she could probably already hold and use a sword? It seemed likelier that Petyr or Jon would ask to be taught.

          “Dacey always told me that ladies, well, could do both,” Lyanna added, correctly interpreting Sansa’s look. “She made her own clothes and armor, and I…I want to learn, too.”

          “I would be happy to teach you, Lyanna; you don’t have to give me your sister’s dress.” Sansa said gently, despite her misgivings. She’d never taught anyone how to do anything before. _What if I’m a terrible teacher_? She thought, holding the dress away from her.

          Lyanna shook her head, refusing to take it back. “I won’t grow that tall—you’re both tall as trees, so it’ll fit you better. Besides, I want to learn how to make my own one day. And my own armor.”  

          “Thank you, Lady Mormont,” she said finally, looking at the fabric in her hands. It was plain, but the material was soft, and seemed like the kind of dress worn for warmth in winter. Sansa peered down into Lyanna’s dark eyes, feeling—not for the first time—that she was looking at someone much older than her years.   

          “Lyanna,” she reminded Sansa. “If you call me ‘Lady’ one more time, I shall hit you with my wooden practice sword.” The tiny bear looked pleased once Sansa stopped trying to return the dress.

          “Thank you, Lyanna,” she corrected herself, smiling. The last time she’d gotten a new dress, it had been for her wedding to Ramsay. The time before that, and it was a dress from the Lannisters, for her wedding to Tyrion. This was an old dress, but Sansa felt her chest swell with emotion. _I will not cry in front of her_ , she thought. _Not over a dress_.

 

*

 

The next day, it took three fishing vessels to ferry their company across the Bay of Ice. All sixty-two fighting men, with their horses and provisions, occupied the other two vessels. They were no better able to increase their speed, so it was nearly dusk by the time they landed ashore. To Sansa’s credit, she didn’t lose the contents of her stomach on this trip, either.

          As they’d neared the shore, her brother had grown increasingly agitated; Jon had gone from stern to bow at least three times, peering out at shore like he saw something amongst the trees that grew ever nearer. It was only when they’d docked that Sansa saw what had given her brother a restless energy: Ghost. His direwolf sat along the edge of the tree line, patiently waiting for them.

          Silent as ever, Ghost padded closer to them when they’d disembarked. The cages of ravens that Lyanna’s Maester brought all shrieked their alarm, and some Mormont men gaped at the direwolf. In the orange-hued light, Ghost’s red eyes were two shining embers. When he approached, Jon hugged his wolf around the neck, pressing his face into the mane of white fur.

          “I missed you,” she heard him say.

          Ghost licked Jon, before he came over and licked Sansa, too. She couldn’t help but laugh; his tongue was huge now. His rasping tongue left her face dripping wet.

          “Is this your beast, Snow?” Lyanna Mormont had disembarked and was approaching them; her expression held a mixture of curiosity and fear. Ghost was taller than she was.

          Sansa saw Ghost turn and pad over to the girl. After a moment of sniffing Lyanna, he licked her, too. She giggled; it was the first time Sansa heard or saw her act like the child she was. Her maester was quick to join them, reminding Lyanna that direwolves were wild beasts, and that she should be careful.

          Reluctantly, Lyanna obeyed and took a step back from the white direwolf. Growing serious once more, she informed Jon and Sansa what they both already knew: that evening was upon them, so they’d best set up camp for the night. Her men were already seeing to it, she promised. They had landed farther down the coast, on a stretch of land in the middle of the bay. The narrow strip served as a landing site long before their ships arrived. Coastline raced in either direction. Lyanna pointed out the hills to the south that led to Deepwood Motte, the seat of House Glover. Their next destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dacey Mormont doesn't exist in the show, but she was such a fantastic character. In the books, Lyanna has several older sisters, but we don't really know much about the others. There are more female characters in the books that are so badass, and I'm going to bring some of them along.


	11. These Fetters Will Soon Burst

Lord Robett Glover was a thunderstorm wrapped in furs, clasped at his throat with a silver brooch in the shape of a mailed fist. Everything beneath that receding grey-brown hairline seemed to be etched with lines or twisted into a frown.

          It had taken days to reach Deepwood Motte. Lyanna’s maester, Hellebore, had warned them all that this visit may likely be a pointless exercise; the Boltons helped the Glovers to liberate Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn. It was likely that their entreaties would fall upon deaf ears. The Glovers won’t easily be willing to leave their ancestral seat, and to rebel against those who helped win it back, no less.  

          They’d barely even left the outer bailey, stepping through the inner gate only to receive a chilled answer. Jon had barely exchanged first greetings before the man before them hastened to interject, asking why they were here. Jon hardly had the time to get a few words out; he was interrupted again. Lord Glover seemingly couldn’t wait to cut the younger man off, as if he were a horse champing at the bit.

          “Absolutely not—my answer is no.”

          It was expected, yet…the words fell heavily about Sansa’s ears. She couldn’t have heard it correctly. But here Robett Glover stood, scowling before them and refusing entry beyond Deepwood’s main courtyard. He would deny them guest right, Sansa realized.  _He doesn’t even want to shelter us overnight_ , she thought, dismayed.  Jon stuttered as he tried to find the words to cover his shock at the harsh dismissal, but it was plain on his face. They’d had scarcely a few moments to look around the inner courtyard with its banners—a mailed fist on a scarlet field—before Lord Glover accurately guessed their reason for coming and voiced his immediate refusal.

          “Lord Glover, I—”

          “There’s naught you can say that can convince me,” the older lord replied sharply, “so’s best if you refrained from trying to drag this out longer ‘n it has to be.”

          “I’d hardly call the due courtesy owed to Lady Stark and Lord Snow somethin’ that you must be convinced of,” Ser Davos said, giving Lord Glover a withering look. For all the two men looked alike in years, clearly Ser Robett was in possession of the inferior reasoning skills and judgment. Lord Glover shot the southron lord an equally scornful expression. After a few silent, tense moments, it became clear that he would not respond to Ser Seaworth’s criticism. Sansa wondered if it was an attempt to ignore the Onion Knight; to acknowledge the harsh words would also acknowledge Lord Glover’s own discourtesy.

          “The Boltons could skin me alive for even talking to you,” Lord Glover told them.

           _Then why do you wish to serve them so badly_? Sansa wanted to scream. But she did not. The temptation was there, but she would not give in to it. The utter gall of this man, to stand there before her—before all of them—and all but lick Ramsay’s boots.

          “Ramsay Snow skinned Lord Cerwyn living—and his lady wife—over a tax dispute,” she informed him. By the lack of surprise on his expression, Sansa knew he was already aware. She continued, “Ramsay murdered his own father just so he could seize power. I imagine Roose Bolton’s widow and only legitimate child did not live long before following him.”

 _That_  got his attention.

          “We…we haven’t heard anything about the Lady Bolton, nor the babe,” the lord admitted. The white steam of his breath gathered at his greying beard, and at the suddenly less-rigid line of his mouth.  

          “If one of his hunting dogs is suddenly named after the Lady Walda, I can tell you exactly what happened to her and how she died,” Sansa said grimly, pressing that. She swore he winced slightly. He had heard the rumors, she guessed. Or worse: Robett Glover knew the truth of them and yet did nothing about it.  

          “Who else has pledged to fight for ye?” the lord asked instead.

          Jon paused, looking behind him at Ser Davos. This required some…careful omission. Petyr had stayed behind with the rest of the riding party. They had decided that if Lord Glover were to prove a turncloak, it would be best if he did not know that Lord Baelish or anyone from the Vale was nearby.

          “House Mormont and House Hornwood have pledged to fight with us, as have the mountain clans,” Jon answered.

          “And—? Who else?” Lord Glover did not seem satisfied with such a meagre number. “Those mountain men are unpredictable and impossible to organize. They can’t be all.”

          “We have sent ravens to Lord Manderly at White Harbor, to Lord Cerwyn, the Tallharts, and—”

          “I don’t give a damn about ravens,” Lord Glover snapped. “Who else d’ye have pledged to fight in this army of yours?”

          Jon swallowed heavily. “A large portion of the fightin’ force is made up of wildlings,” he admitted.

          That seemed to be all the lord needed to scoff in their faces. He flushed in anger, though its color was mottled, uneven. Soon he had enough red patches to be mistaken for a pox victim. “Bloody wildlings,” Lord Glover said, spitting on the ground before them.

          Sansa tried to keep her face neutral, even if she was disgusted.

          “I will  _not_  leave my ancestral home to fight alongside  _wildlings_.” A vein near the older man’s temple seemed to throb with each pulse of his anger. “We only just won it back from the Ironborn—and the Boltons helped us do it.”

          “Lord Glover, I know that the Boltons—” Jon began.

          “You know naught about it, Snow,” Robett Glover interrupted. “I marched south with my brother when he was lord of this castle, to fight for your brother Robb. And while we were gone, those squids reaved and raped across our lands, and threw my wife and children  _in prison_   _to rot_.”

           _He’d blame us for not taking back his home sooner_? Sansa felt her heart pound furiously.  _At least he has a home to stand in_. She had to look away from this man in front of them, anywhere else, even if only briefly. His reasoning was maddeningly stupid.

          “You’d blame us, without a home to call our own, for not having power enough to drive out the Ironborn sooner?” Sansa asked. Lord Glover met her eyes unflinching.

          “I blame your brother,  _King Robb_ ,” he replied, scornful. “We marched south for his war and left ourselves open to attack. And where was  _King_  Robb when the north was suffering? When my wife and children suffered? Taking up with a foreign whore and gettin’ himself and everyone else killed.”  

          “He was murdered by Roose Bolton,” Sansa told him evenly. She felt heat in her cheeks and knew that she was flushing in anger. “Lest you forget, he did it with the help of the Lannisters. Do you really support them, Lord Glover? Even now, when the Boltons have our little brother Rickon held captive?”

          Sansa saw a flicker of uncertainty cross the older lord’s face. When he said nothing, she pressed her advantage.

          “Rickon Stark is the last trueborn son of Ned Stark, and your rightful liege lord,” she reminded him. “You’re willing to throw away five hundred years of fealty to our house, in favor of a madman? One who tortures his allies when he grows bored with them?”

           _That_  provoked a reaction. Lord Glover’s mouth twisted as though he were slapped. Before he could respond, Jon spoke up.

          “Sansa is the best judge of Ramsay Snow you’re likely to meet,” he told the older man. “She was captured and forced to marry him. He’s monstrous, and he won’t stop killing innocent subjects—even if he defeats us—you have to know that.”  

          “Don’t presume to lecture me, stripling,” Lord Glover snapped. “This isn’ about Rickon Stark at all. This is about you, Snow, and Robb’s will. Don’t pretend it isn’t.”

          “What are you talking about?” Sansa asked. She glanced at Jon; he looked as clueless as she.

          “King Robb’s will,” Lord Glover said again, more impatient than the last time. “His last living will and testament—the one that said you were to be pardoned from the Night’s Watch, legitimized, and made heir to the Kingdom of the North.”

          “My lord,” Jon said, looking as though he’d just swallowed a lemon. “This is the first I’m hearin’ of this.”

          Robett Glover squinted at them both in turn, as though he were suspicious of their ignorance. “Don’t lie to me, Snow. That’s why you let the wildlings pass through the Wall, isn’t it? So you could have an army to take your throne?”

          “N—No, my lord,” Jon replied, clearly startled. “I mean to return to the Wall to defend it from the real enemy, once Castle Black is no longer under threat of attack from the Boltons.”

          “Defend it from the  _real_  enemy?” Lord Glover looked even more suspicious and squint-eyed. “What’re you talking about?”

          “The White Walkers,” Jon told him seriously. “They are on the march south to the Wall, with an army of the undead at their backs.”  

          The older lord laughed right in their faces. “I’m not about to listen to any more excuses or tales of squishers and snarks. And I’m not about to march on Winterfell with a baseborn Snow and a red Stark who regrets her marriage. I have nothing more to say to either of you.” Lord Glover turned around so quickly that his fur-lined cape whipped and snapped in the cold air.  _He has a mummer’s flair, and their gilded props, but none of it is real steel_ , Sansa thought, unkindly.

          “Please, Lord Glover—” Jon implored him.

          It made not a lick of difference. Lord Glover moved like he didn’t hear a thing. She watched as the older lord stalked off to the set of wide double doors of the keep, with the mailed fist of his house displayed proudly on either side. The soldiers hastened to open the doors, while others sprang forward to “guide” Sansa and the rest of their party out. They would be escorted out of the keep and baileys. Their accompanying Glover men were polite, yet firm. Sansa almost felt as though invisible hands were at her back, pushing her right along towards the gates. A glance at Jon and the others showed a range of expressions—mostly disappointment and frustration—and it mirrored Sansa’s own feelings. She kept her expression neutral while the Glover men were among them.  _I am stone_ , she thought.  _This will not affect me, not around them_.  _Courtesy is a lady’s armor_. It was a lesson her mother had reminded her of often, even if those lessons felt like they happened a thousand years ago.

 

*

 

          In the end, Petyr and the others near the outer bailey’s gates didn’t even need to inquire about the meeting. It was evident from their sour expressions that House Glover would not be joining the fold, would not give them a shred of help. Their party retreated to the entrance of the Wolfswood, though they placed archers to watch in case any ravens were sent out before sunset. Out of sight of the Deepwood’s guards, the wildlings, clansmen, and others set about building the campsite. Its size swelled every time they added to their numbers. They held a meeting of all the commanders, highborn or no, before supper and agree on their next course of action.

          “I think we should head further south and visit the new Lord Cerwyn,” Sansa said, almost immediately. “He was friendly with Robb and Theon when we were all at Winterfell together, and Ramsay flayed his father alive. He’d help us if we asked him in person, I’m sure of it.”

          “Cerwyn’s response, or lack of one, sounds to me like he’s scared,” Ser Davos offered. “If he didn’t answer already, despite what they did to his father, then he’s not going to. Fear has much sway over the mind, and he probably doesn’t want to share his father’s fate.”

          “Ramsay could’ve had ravens shot down,” Camil told him. “It’d be easier to do with territory closer to Winterfell.”

          “Castle Cerwyn is only half a day’s ride from Winterfell,” Jon mused. He looked down at the map spread on the wooden table before them. Sansa watched him fiddle with a heavy stone holding down a corner of the map’s curling edges. “It would be nothin’ for Ramsay to ride down and ambush us, if Cley Cerwyn is more interested in saving his own skin.”

          “The Hornwoods and the Flints of Breakstone Hill have already pledged their men to you,” Lyanna Mormont reminded them all. She peered at the map, though she was barely tall enough to see it at all. “If Cley Cerwyn doesn’t want to join us, then I don’t know what begging will do.”

          “Aye, and with my lady’s forces—” here Ser Davos nodded to Lyanna, “the Vale, and the mountain clans, our numbers are nearly even,” he said. “Though I do understand you wanting to press for more men and get an advantage. Even armies with superior numbers can lose.”

          “But we may not have enough time going knocking door to door before the true winter snows come,” Jon replied.

          Ser Davos looked alarmed at the possibility of  _worse_  snows than they’d already seen.  

          “And if he finds out you have enough men to make it a fair fight, that cunt will go back behind his big castle walls, and we’ll never breach it and take it before winter is truly here—not even with a giant.” Tormund’s suggestion was one they already knew; it would be madness to try and lay siege to Winterfell.

          “A giant?” Lyanna Mormont’s mouth made a small ‘o’ of surprise. “You have a giant with you?”

          Tormund merely nodded and shrugged, as though this were commonplace. Ser Knell stood beside Lady Mormont, and his eyes grew wide as dinner plates, mirroring his tiny mistress.

          Regardless, Tormund had a point. It’d be nearly impossible to get into Winterfell without siege weaponry like towers and battering rams. Not only that, but they would just have to rebuild everything immediately afterwards. Sansa knew that this would never be an option.

          “Ramsay is arrogant, and he knows the northern lords will watch and see what he does,” Sansa said after a moment. “He’ll ride out to meet us in the field, but he might even do so if he knows we have even numbers. He wants to make an example out of us.” She looked down at the map, but she wasn’t really looking at it. Ramsay’s face almost seemed to appear before her, pale worm lips in a sick grin. Sansa held back a shudder.

          Ser Davos agreed. “He was likely the one that led a small group to sneak into Stannis’ camp, and set fire to the supplies and siege weapons.”

          “It was him,” Sansa replied, the memory coming to her. “He bragged about it the night he returned.” Ramsay had been in a jubilant mood afterwards. He’d raped her with an almost frenzied energy that night, drunk on the success of his bold maneuvering. Sansa knew that he fancied himself to be an excellent military commander and strategist.

          The line of Ser Davos’ mouth grew thinner at her words. It was almost as if he could sense her thoughts, too. Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Petyr rub his thumb and forefinger together, along skin and the silver ring that sat brightly, snugly there.  _Was he feeling uncomfortable_? She wondered.

          “I know Ramsay very well by now,” she told them.

          The conversation led to a general agreement that time was of the essence, and that Lord Cerwyn and the others would not be any likelier to join them after a personal visit. They had to meet up with the rest of their forces at Long Lake. The wildlings and gathered mountain clans would be slower to arrive, given their numbers, but they would gather eventually.

          Sansa was disappointed that no one else thought it was beneficial to visit the Cerwyns and Slates. It might result in hundreds more men, and she had a feeling their chances for success were higher than those at this table believed. Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a man wearing padded leather with the Mormont bear stamped into the breast. One of the scouts, or a man posted to keep watch not far from their camp perimeter.

          “Lord Snow.”

          Pushing aside the tent flap, the scout’s movements betrayed his tentativeness and his lack of desire to interrupt them, despite his obvious air of urgency. When Jon gave the man a nod, he spoke again.

          “A woman rode towards the outskirts of camp, and when we intercepted her she demanded to speak with you. She is clad in red, head to toe, and claims that you know her well.”

          It had to be the lady Melisandre.

          Jon shared a look with Ser Davos. “Aye, I know her,” he said finally, turning back to the man who carried the message. “Show her to a tent; I’ll speak with her when we’ve finished here.”

          The man pinked around the cheeks. “She insisted that it’s, uh, urgent, my lord.”

          This time, Jon sighed aloud. “Fine,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “Show her to a tent, and I’ll be there shortly.”

 

*

 

          The meeting was over soon after. While Jon was led away by the Mormont man, Sansa and the others emerged to smells of dinner wafting in the air. Despite her hurried arrival, the lady Melisandre did not emerge and join them all for dinner. There were more noises around them, too. Their camp had swollen in size to accommodate the Mormonts and their fighters. Sixty-two men did not feel like so many, initially, but they did add quite a bit of noise. There were men talking, laughing, setting up more tents, cooking food, and, in some cases, arguing with clansmen or wildlings.

          Jon had helped settle two disputes the night before. Sansa had caught the tail end of one—something about a theft of skinned hares—before Lady Lyanna stormed over to them and firmly ended the matter. If the tiny lady felt any animosity towards the wildlings, she did not let it show. Even if her master-at-arms and maester shared frequent looks.

          Despite the ever-growing numbers of their group, the increase in noise, and the lack of a godswood proper, Camil had Sansa and Jon both join her after supper for more sitting exercises. The few days he’d been reunited with Ghost had prompted a drastic improvement in her half-sibling’s abilities. He was able to take control of Ghost now, and each time he did it Jon could wear the direwolf’s skin for longer intervals. Jon had Ghost walk circles around them, sitting beside his human body as though it were the easiest thing in the world.

          Sansa could only warg into one of the dogs for a short period at best. On days where she felt more anxious, more unsure about their future, she couldn’t warg at all. Her concentration had to be fully on the task before her, Camil had said. But there were times where her thoughts felt too scattered, too focused on a hundred things at once, to do so.          

          If the red woman’s arrival caused her half-brother any discomfort, Jon didn’t show it at dinner or at practice. Instead, Sansa had watched him share an odd joke with Tormund and take turns visiting several different campfires, sitting and drinking amongst northmen and wildlings alike.

          “What did the Lady Melisandre want of you?” Sansa asked Jon. They were wending their way through the thick band of tents and campfires, with Jon walking her back to her tent. Night had truly fallen, and the world was black and still. She had a hard time making out his expression in the dim, lambent light from intermittent fires.

          “She sent word to her brethren, and to the Temple of the High Priestess,” he said after a moment. “They won’t arrive in time to help with this fight, but they’ll come to the Wall to aid in the war to come.”  

 _That’s all_? She felt a sneaking suspicion that he was holding something back from her.  _But…why would Jon do that_?

          “It seems like quite a distance she rode in from,” Sansa remarked, finally. “Is that the only reason she wore out a horse to get here, and demanded to see you?”

          She swore that Jon’s cheeks pinkened in the darkness. When they passed a closer campfire, she saw that she was right. His gaze was firmly fixed ahead of them, even when they had more light to see each other by.

          “She…wanted to discuss other things with me,” Jon admitted.

          “Other…things?”

          “She wants to…gods, this is difficult,” he muttered. “She wants to sleep with me.”

          That took her aback. Upon reflection, she supposed it was rather obvious, with the way the red woman looked at him.

          “She seems nice, I guess,” Sansa replied. “I can see why you’d find her attractive.”

          She felt suddenly awkward, unsure of Jon’s vows to the Night’s Watch. There had been rumors, of course, during her stay at Castle Black. Rumors that Jon had ridden beyond the Wall with the body of a wilding woman. Alone. That he’d returned hours later, with tears frozen on his cheeks. That last bit sounded like embellishment from bored men at the hinge of the world, but she heard it nonetheless.

          “No, no, it’s not that,” Jon rushed to explain. “I don’t want to sleep with her.”

          “I was not about to judge,” she told him. How could she, given what she and Petyr were doing? Even if it went against his vows and the laws of men.

          “I don’t want to sleep with her,” Jon replied, a bit more forcefully this time. It was loud enough that a few men nearby heard him; Sansa could hear a low chuckle at her half-brother’s predicament.

          “Fine,” she answered. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. “Whatever you say.”

          They walked in silence for a few more moments before Jon spoke again. “She says she can be of help in this fight.”

          “Help, how?”

          “She has powers, Sansa,” Jon replied. When they passed another fire, his dark eyes had a faraway look. There was something he wasn’t telling her. “A part of me is afraid of her.”

          That took Sansa by surprise. Jon had always seemed fearless. Even when they were children. Even during the midst of his more serious broodings.

          “Powers, like what?” A part of her was curious. “Like warging? Greensight?”

          “No, she has…visions,” Jon tried to explain. “In the flames. She tells me I’m—” Here he paused, looking around them to make sure they were out of immediate earshot. “—I’m important, in the wars to come. She thinks.”

          In the dim light, Sansa saw him frown.

          “Didn’t she say the same things to Stannis?” Sansa wanted to know. “He burned the heart tree at Storm’s End for her; I heard it at court.”

          “Aye,” Jon replied. “And before you go sayin’ it, I’m not about to listen to whatever she says. But I’ve seen her powers.”

          “Brienne says she uses blood magic—that she used it to murder Renly Baratheon.” She remembered how gallant Ser Renly had looked, the day of her father’s tourney. He had bet on Ser Loras, who had looked so splendid in his filigree rose armor. “What kind of help was that, murdering his own brother?” Sansa wanted to know. “Using blood magic?”

          “Sansa,” Jon interrupted her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want that sort of help. I don’t trust it.”

          “Oh.” She was a bit relieved, even though she knew he had better sense than that. “Well, good.”

          “But she is a fire priestess,” he reminded her. “We need anyone and everyone at the Wall, soon enough; fire can kill a wight.”

          “And there are thousands and thousands of them marching south,” Sansa finished for him. This was not the first time he’d spoken to her about the threat beyond the Wall. “So, yes, we may need her and her flock of red men and women someday. Can you at least get her to avoid drooling on you in front of us?”

          Jon stuttered and issued denials, despite her teasing smile. There were so many things to be worried about, Sansa knew, but she was also acutely aware of how sweet this was. It had been so long since she’d shared a moment like this with one of her siblings.

          “Do you want to talk about what Lord Glover said?” Jon asked suddenly. They’d reached her tent, and her brother looked around for potential eavesdroppers. “About Robb’s will?”

          “People are going to find out, you know,” Sansa pointed out to him. “Whether or not they hear you right now.”

          Jon’s shoulders sagged a bit, but he nodded, accepting the truth of that. Ser Davos was unlikely to speak of it, but they had a personal guard with them. There was nothing to stop them from talking about it; those guards were probably doing so this very moment. Sansa knew that once they had drink in them, men could gossip as loudly as a clutch of hens.

          “I don’t want people thinkin’ I’m doing this because I want to be called ‘Stark’,” Jon told her as he drew into her tent behind her. Spoken barely above a whisper, Sansa had to strain to hear him. She saw his long face and the hurt in his eyes. There was something else he wasn’t telling her, she was sure.

          “You already are, to me,” Sansa replied. It hadn’t been true when she was younger; that Sansa had been foolish and believed what everyone said about bastards. Perhaps she’d been more influenced by her mother towards Jon than she thought. “You’ve always been a Stark.”

          Jon gave her a weak smile. “It’s strange…all my life, that was the first thing I ever wanted. That father would tell me he wrote to the king, and with a stroke of a pen I would be called ‘Stark,’ like the rest of you.”

          Sansa imagined that he never expected another king to name him Stark. Their brother. “They said that Stannis offered to legitimize you, in return for fealty,” she said quietly.

          “And I refused him.” Her brother set about lighting a fire in her brazier, to ease the chill. It was a distraction, she knew; Jon didn’t have to look her in the eyes as he said it.

          “Why?”

          “Because I believed in the vows I made to serve the Night’s Watch.”

          “Believed?” she asked.  _Why would he say it that way_? She wondered.  _Does he no longer believe in them_?  _Or does he fear he’ll be beheaded for a traitor by the northerners all the same_? She tried to halt the tide of questions that came to mind, but they swam over her.

          Jon didn’t answer her question. But by the look on his face, it seemed he didn’t even notice that she was distracted—her brother was himself a thousand leagues away. After a few long minutes, Jon blew on the kindling and it caught. The glow from the brazier cast bars of black along the walls of her tent.

          “When I heard what Lord Glover said today, all I thought about was how much I miss Robb,” Jon said finally. “I wanted to hate him when we were growing up, ‘cause he had everything I ever wanted…but I never could.”

          “I miss him, too,” Sansa told him.

          Jon pulled her into an embrace suddenly. His arms were strong, and bordered crushing. It took her by surprise, but tears sprang to her eyes regardless. “We’ll get Rickon back,” he promised.

          She could say nothing in response.

 

*

 

          Sometime later, Sansa waited for Petyr in her tent. She was alone, save for Thistle, who was snoozing contentedly on her bed.  _Where was Ruan_? She thought. Perhaps he was wandering within the campsite, begging for scraps. Or maybe Camil was grooming him. Ruan liked to preen a bit more than his sister. He was almost bird-like, that way, like one of the multicolored parrots found in the Summer Isles.

          She imagined she wouldn’t be kept waiting too long for Petyr to appear. Doubtless he would be interested in her assessment of Lord Glover, but that would hardly be all he was interested in. She tended to some sewing while she waited. Mostly this included hemming sleeves. Even with as few pins as she had in her possession, Sansa was able to straighten out a hemline that’d been bothering her.

          Eventually, she noticed that the candle at her elbow was getting low.  _Where is he_? Sansa wondered, as she watched the candle dribble wax. She watched steady drip of wax that hardened as soon as it reached its base. She got up. Quickly, she stashed her sewing things away and, with a peek out of her tent and seeing no one, Sansa slipped out into the night. She let her eyes adjust to the dimness of infrequent fires and large tents, walking with purpose in her step. If anyone asked, she would claim a need to use the latrine, and feign embarrassment well enough to let whichever guard caught her lead her to the spot Camil had dug for them. She knew the way, of course; she had seen it on their return from Deepwood Motte. Petyr had feigned tiredness and returned to his tent for a short rest. He’d given her a small smile while halfway into his tent. It was a smile meant just for her, as if to tell her where he’d be, should she come looking.

          Well, she was looking now. There was a clansman feeding wood into a nearby fire; Sansa took advantage of his absorption in his task and darted behind a tent. There were loud snores coming from behind the canvas of this one. She moved on. Whomever had set up the tents had chosen well; Petyr’s tent was nearer to Jon’s, and the Mormont’s, though further away from the likes of Tormund and the other wildlings. Petyr wouldn’t soon forget some of those comments they’d made in his presence.

          “There you are.”

          Sansa froze. There was a voice in the dark. Her heart began to hammer wildly in a moment of fear. It was a woman’s voice.

          Whirling around, Sansa saw the red woman—Melisandre—behind her. In the distance, the fire seemed to form a wreath around the older woman’s head. It was as though Sansa had double vision for a moment. She shook her head to clear it, finding her voice.

          “Lady Melisandre,” she replied, nodding courteously. “You were looking for me?”

          “I am no lady,” the red woman said. There was a haughtiness in her demeanor, as if being a lady were a great insult.

          “I meant no offense,” Sansa told her.

          “None taken.” Melisandre shrugged, and behaved as though it were already forgotten. “I had wanted to speak with you before your departure from Castle Black, Lady Stark.”

          Sansa frowned.  _She wanted to speak with me_?  _About what_?

          “I am not here to ask anything of you,” the red woman told her. “I wanted to tell you, as I told your brother—I have seen your sister, Arya, in my flames.”

           _Arya_? Sansa felt her heart skip a beat. It seemed like so long ago that Petyr had told her Arya was still alive. That she hadn’t died with the rest of their father’s household in King’s Landing. With their father.  _She already told Jon_?  _Why didn’t he tell me_? Sansa was confused.

          “What about Arya?” she asked.

          “Your sister rides to you both, growing nearer all the time,” Melisandre assured her. “I have seen her: hair tied against the wind, astride a dying horse.”

           _That’s it_? Sansa tried to conceal her disappointment. “A dying horse? Where is she? Did you see?”

          She was unsure of how these things worked. Camil had mentioned the greenseers, like in Old Nan’s tales. The ones who could see visions in dreams, or even further. The Children of the Forest taught them to extend their gifts. Greenseers were the ones who used the weirwood trees to see the bones of the world. But this was different.

          “I could not see where exactly she was, but I did see snow around her,” Melisandre admitted. “R’hllor-willing, I shall see her again, and see where she is. Or where she will be. The art of reading flames is more imprecise than one would like.”

          “That’s a word for it,” Sansa replied. It was as vague as Petyr’s brief—too brief—mention of her little sister. Then, she’d been under heavy Lannister guard, and talking freely was impossible. Here was just a priestess claiming visions. She would not forget the look on Brienne’s face, when the tall woman described Renly’s death.

          “But I also had visions of you,” the red woman continued, unperturbed by Sansa’s short replies.

          “Of me?”

          “Oh, yes. I had visions of you before we met.”

          Sansa glanced around them at the fires, and the dancing shadows. The red stone in the woman’s collar seemed to glow in the flickering light. “What kinds of visions?”

          “I saw a maid at a feast,” Melisandre said, placing a hand on her arm. “She had red hair in braids, and purple snakes draped across her neck, dripping venom from their fangs.”

          Sansa started in surprise. She jerked her arm away from the woman’s touch as though she’d been branded.  _Joffrey’s wedding_.

          “But this has already happened,” Melisandre added. The red priestess didn’t need a gift to see that; Sansa was sure it was plain on her face. “I had visions of you with the face of a wolf. With a boy who howls beside you. Now a boy, now a wolf, now a crow. He sits beside you in a castle of snow.”

           _Was it Jon_? Sansa wondered.  _They do call the men of the Watch crows, since they wear black_. But Melisandre called him ‘boy.’ Jon wasn’t the type to be described as vocal, that was for certain.  _What if it was Rickon_? Her baby brother. Ramsay had called Rickon “wild,” in his letter. She didn’t dare to get her hopes up. Especially not on the words of a priestess alone. A witch, Brienne called her.  

          Before Sansa could open her mouth to reply, to claim that the older woman was telling her what she wanted to hear, Melisandre reached out and grasped her chin. “You, my dear, you jump the track of fate,” Melisandre murmured, tilting Sansa’s chin upward with a gentle finger.

           _What does that mean_? Sansa wondered. She didn’t understand.  _Whose ‘fate’ is she talking about_?  _Mine_? Doubtful.

          “He is a small man, your Lord Baelish, but he casts a very large shadow. Very large, indeed,” Melisandre said.

          “I’m sorry, my lady, I don’t catch your meaning,” she told the older woman. The woman whose hair was even redder than hers, like fire caught in silk.  _Her_  Lord Baelish? The words ended up being far from reassuring—they stole between her ribs like needles.   

          “You may, yet,” Melisandre said simply. “If I see more in the flames, I will tell you and your brother, I promise.”

 _Your word does not mean much_ , Sansa wanted to say.  _Your visions mean nothing_. She could not get over the uneasy feeling that slid over her; it happened whenever she looked at Melisandre.

          “Thank you,” she told the red woman instead.

          “We will speak soon,” Melisandre promised her. “Be careful, out here in the darkness. The night is dark and full of terrors.”

          The red woman was gone as quickly as she had appeared.

 

*

 

          Sansa had reconsidered following through with her plan, with the tent that was not her own in mind. Alone again, she gathered her courage, and she took care to avoid being seen once more.  _I am a wolf and I will not be afraid_. That thought bolstered her resolve. Her cautious steps brought her away from fires—and the men around them. Even as she arrived at Petyr’s tent, Melisandre’s words rattled through her like crows in a cage.

           _Petyr will laugh and call me silly, for believing in superstition and mummer’s tricks_ , Sansa thought.  _I can use a bit of laughter, though_. She smiled at her own foolishness, to be lured in by a vision and an untrustworthy promise. A stick snapped somewhere off to her right. The noise startled her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a large shadow. It moved. When it entered a swath of flickering, changing firelight, she almost laughed in relief.

          It was Ghost.

          “Come here, boy,” she said, breathless with half-forgotten fear. Then, when their eyes met, Sansa felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

           _Warg_.

          She knew what it felt like, now. What that feeling meant. “Jon?” she asked, suspicious.

          Ghost made a whining sound and pawed at his nose. His red eyes—with Jon behind them, looking out at her—were red as blood. As red as the bile of a poisoned man.

          When Sansa stepped closer to the tent, and away from Ghost, he pawed at the ground. She remembered that smells were stronger in her wolf dreams, and stronger even when she was in the skin of Ruan or Thistle. Perhaps Jon could smell her irritation, her surprise…or her hunger for something that was not food. She didn’t like the notion that her half-brother could smell her desire. For a moment, Sansa felt naked and cold there in the dark, despite all her warm layers. She shivered.

          Ghost snorted, and its breath hung in a mist around the white-furred snout and panting tongue. The look that the direwolf seemed to give her was appraising. Judgmental, even.

          “Oh, go on,” she said, irritated. “Shoo. Go practice spying somewhere else.”

          Ghost whined again.

          “I  _mean_  it. Shoo.” Sansa insisted, voice quiet but firm. “You have  _no right_.”

          He didn’t have any right at all to judge her. Not after what he’d said to her today. Not after what she’d heard at Castle Black about the wildling woman. She made a shooing motion with her hand and, after a moment, Ghost—Jon—acquiesced. With their tail tucked down between hind legs, the direwolf walked off. Where to, Sansa did not particularly know or care at the moment.

          When Ghost’s retreating form was out of sight, there were only the occasional cawing of ravens in the trees, the hooting of owls, and the crackle of logs breaking in the fires. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.  _Alone again_ , she thought.  _Sort of_.

          She turned and stepped through the entrance to Petyr’s tent, a reckless feeling overtaking her. Sansa didn’t care what anyone else thought; she’d spent too much time today worrying about others’ opinions. Instead of worrying, she strode right on into the tent. The canvas opening made a distinct snapping sound behind her. She didn’t even care if someone else heard them—someone with human ears, that is.  _If Jon hears me, it will be his own fault_ , she thought.

          There was no doubt that she’d surprised the tent’s occupant; Petyr’s eyes were wide when he looked up at her. He was in a state of undress, too.

          “Sansa, what—what are you doing?” he asked.

          “What I want,” she replied, simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show them missing their other siblings. The show doesn't do that often enough.
> 
> Since the show didn't include the Ghost of High Heart or her prophecy about Sansa, I gave it to Melisandre. Since they gave the meeting between Arya and the Ghost of High Heart to Melisandre, I incorporated her cool prophecy. Mostly.


	12. Watchman, What of the Night?

Petyr rushed, fingers fumbling in a clumsy attempt to retie his tunic around himself. He looked past Sansa towards the now-closed tent flap. She thought his expression looked anxious.

     “Did anyone see you?” he asked. He was still peering around her set shoulders and confident stance, both of which were pure mummery on her part.

     “I saw Melisandre,” Sansa admitted, frowning. That didn’t seem to concern Petyr, though it was hardly the reaction she’d expected. Their eyes met. His were wide, as if seeing her for the first time tonight. His expression and his pale face gave hollows to his cheeks in the flickering light of the brazier. Sansa thought that he looked almost startled. He reminded her of an animal prepared to dart through the midnight grass.

     “Did you see anyone else? —Anything else?” 

 _He’s seen Ghost tonight, too_.

     “I also saw my brother’s direwolf,” Sansa told him. _That_ got his attention. Petyr tugged nervously on the hem of his tunic.

     “I was planning on visiting you,” Petyr confessed, “but I saw that great big direwolf near your tent. The way it looked at me made me feel…uncomfortable, and then the beast growled at me, so I, erm, returned to my tent.”

     He looked away from her as he said it. _It must be hard for him to talk about these small moments_ , she realized. _Feeling afraid_. _Maybe it makes him feel small_.

     “Ghost tends to have that effect on people.” In some ways, it was an attempt to lessen his concern. She couldn’t smell the stink of fear on a body while in her own skin, but Sansa remembered the smell as distinctly sour, yet also somehow sickly-sweet, and sharp as a tooth. Petyr’s expression reminded her of that cutting scent. For the moment, she would not mention the feeling she’d gotten when looking at her brother’s wolf.

 _Warg_.

     The shade of that sensation crept down the bumps of her spine. But on its heels was this mad cluster of feelings—of joy, satisfaction, and defiance.

     “I got the strangest feeling that he knew where I was going and why…and he wasn’t happy about it,” Petyr told her. “So, when you came here, I half-thought he’d followed you.”

     “He won’t harm you,” Sansa said vaguely, letting Petyr interpret it as he would.

     “Will he tell Jon?” he asked. “Is that how it works?”

     Sansa couldn’t help but smile at that. “No, no, that’s not it…they don’t talk like people do.”

     “I bet they would have some interesting stories to tell, if they could.”

     She wondered whether Jon would have some interesting stories to tell her on the morrow. But it mattered not—she’d made her choice. What Jon would do was up to him.

     “I’m more interested in hearing a story from you, actually,” Sansa told him. Petyr stopped fussing idly at the ties on his tunic and gave her his full attention. “I was wondering if, well, men—or women—ever went to your brothels to be…hit? Or slapped, maybe?”

     Petyr raised an eyebrow in her direction. She felt her face grow hot. Then she felt acutely aware of how clumsily she pawed at these words, these notions, as they rattled around in her mind. It was hardly her fault for not knowing how to talk about this; she had no real frame of reference.

     “What are you trying to ask, Sansa?”

     “Did people visit your brothels to be hit—not seriously, I mean—but in places they liked, like their thighs…their backside…” She felt a heat in her cheeks, her neck, as she replied. Really, she only grasped at the words and grasped at them clumsily. If only this blush would lessen.

     Petyr sported a knowing smile. “Yes, people came for those kinds of services. Why do you ask, sweetling?”

     Why was she asking? Why did she want to try it? Sansa struggled to understand it herself, let alone put it into words. Truthfully, she hadn’t dared to think about such things until her marriage to Ramsay. He forced her to live them—and live through those scenarios ten times more harshly than she could bear. Sansa didn’t want that.

     “I’ve been thinking, and I—I wanted to try something like that,” she confessed.

     “Are you sure?” Petyr’s expression grew concerned, and he reached out to touch her arm lightly. “Your wounds are still healing, and I have no wish to hurt you.”

     “You misunderstand,” Sansa replied, shaking her head. “I wasn’t talking about _you_ doing it to _me_.”

     “I see…” Petyr’s eyes widened; he looked almost dazed.

     “I wouldn’t hurt you,” she rushed to add, “not seriously. I have this feeling…I can’t explain it. But I want to feel what it’s like, to hit you there. To touch and pet the marks I make.”

     Sansa felt a warmth between her legs at the mere mention of it. Was this some black part of her, some part that craved his degradation? She wondered if this desire could bloom anything that wasn’t sour with rot.

     “Did you learn this from Ramsay?”

     She felt her cheeks grow hot, unable to stop herself. Ramsay had beaten her—had enjoyed beating her. Harshly. Sometimes he preferred the close, intimate act of using his own hand. His closed fist. At other times, he preferred blunt instruments. Then there were the encounters where he used a riding crop on her, like she was a bloody horse, one to be broken and ridden into submission.

     When she looked up, she saw that Petyr was watching her carefully. His eyes looked more grey than green in the light of the fire.

     “He enjoyed hurting me and ensuring the marks would last. He was never tender with them, either,” she replied. Sansa tried to keep her voice light, unaffected.

     When his arm dropped from hers, Sansa tried to hold back her sense of disappointment. He would not agree to it. And here she was, an absolute fool to bring this up. She sighed.

     But then Petyr grasped her hand and, almost tenderly, he brought it to his lips to kiss her knuckles. “Would you treat me tenderly, then?”

     The question was teasing, but Sansa could gather there was a hint of desperation in his tone. His lips spoke into her skin. Petyr’s expression was unreadable like that, bent as he was over her hand. She had a sense that he preferred it that way.

     “Of course,” Sansa replied, as though it were obvious. There was a shadow of doubt in her mind that she didn’t name. A part of her wondered if she could truly be tender to anyone in bed. She didn’t know what it was like—what it _should_ be like.

     “Is this something that you want, Sansa? Truly?”

     “Yes,” she replied immediately, feeling her hope returning in a rush. Her sincerity was bared, soft and belly-up, but she prayed that she didn’t look too eager. It might frighten him off. _Like a deer_ , she thought, almost amused.   

     “I’ve…never been in this position before,” Petyr admitted, voice quiet. “I’ve only seen others, er, perform it.”

 _I have more experience than a brothelkeep_ , she mused, darkly. _In this, at least_. The smile she gave him was not humorous; it stretched over her cheeks and chin, something akin to fear.

     “I have no interest in dealing out pain like what was done to me,” Sansa said. On some level, she knew that this was hardly reassuring, but she was being honest. He had to understand that, had to appreciate that.

     “But I do want to see you in that position,” she continued. The thought was tantalizing; already she felt herself growing a little wet. “On the bed and over my lap, maybe…”

     His eyes searched hers, still holding her hand tenderly. “Why?”

     She couldn’t really say.

     Sansa thought that perhaps it was because her heart was still pounding in her ears—likely she was drunk from the ecstasy of her short-lived rebellion outside his tent. Nor could she say something like, ‘I just want to hit something for a while, not even that harshly,’ because that sounded like an excuse, and a barbaric one at that, even in her mind.

     “I guess…” she paused.

     “Yes?”

     “I guess that I— I want to know what it feels like,” Sansa confessed. “What it would feel like if I were the one to do it with someone else—no pain, or torture, or anything like that—and I’m curious if it’s something I would enjoy. I just want to try it, honestly.”

     She still felt vaguely uncomfortable, showing anything close to resembling a soft belly, a weakness, even though Petyr had seen her at her lowest. It was Ramsay’s doing. And some of Joffrey’s. That latter thought was much more distant and removed. Time spent with the vicious boy king felt like so long ago. A lifetime ago.

     “All right. I’ll do it.”

     “What?” Sansa looked up in surprise, pulled from her unpleasant reverie.

     “I’ll do it,” Petyr repeated. His expression looked uncertain, tentative, even. “Will I still be able to sit ahorse tomorrow?”

     Was that what he worried about? That she would hurt him, brand him even, and so severely as to be agonizing days later?

     “Of course you will,” she reassured him. Sansa didn’t laugh off his concerns, but she was being genuine. Besides, if Petyr fell off his horse, she doubted that they’d ever hear the end of it.

     “Good. I would prefer to be seen as an amiable fellow around camp, but not to the point of derision,” Petyr said, lips quirking and giving her a playful look.

     “No, no, nothing like that.”

     Petyr took her arm, drawing her closer. He cupped her cheek with a soft hand and kissed her. It was a brief—but firm—kiss. When she looked down into his eyes, Sansa thought there was something hopeful about his expression. She felt a hand rub her hip gently.

     “Where do you want me?” he asked, quirking a brow upward and giving her a sly look.

     Sansa almost rolled her eyes. Instead of answering him, she grasped at his tunic collar, pulling it open further. Petyr grinned. A moment later, he jumped slightly when her thumb rubbed at his collarbone and the white, taut flesh of his scar stretching there.

     “Relax,” she told him. It was a command, but a command given gently, as though gloved in velvet. She was trying to reiterate her point. “I don’t want to do to you what was done to me.”

     Her words had an unintended effect as Petyr frowned; he looked suddenly remorseful. “I’d deserve it if you did,” he replied.

     “But I don’t,” Sansa said. She shot him a look. “So please, take off the rest and get on the bed.”

     If she didn’t shake him out of this line of thought, he would drag her into it, too. Sansa walked with purpose over to his bed and sat atop the furs. She was fully clothed but motioned for him to continue.

     “Shouldn’t we be on more…equal footing?” Petyr asked, baring his chest as he pulled the garment off.

     “No,” Sansa replied, denying him that. “I don’t think so.”

     She expected him to pout about it, or to protest. If he did, she would spank him more harshly in punishment. When he didn’t, and wordlessly continued to remove his clothing, Sansa smiled. She patted her lap gently.

     “Did your customers or your…whores talk when they did this?” she asked. “To the other person, I mean. Did they ask them to say things while they did it?”

     “You assume I’ve spied on my own clientele?” Petyr asked, slipping into a shocked—and somewhat bemused—expression. “To do so would be a breach of the privacy that I assured my patrons they had.”

     “Is there such a thing, privacy in a brothel?” she asked instead. “Or does the business owner never check on his…”

     “Investments?” Petyr offered, giving her a helpful smile.

     “I also think you _liked_ it,” Sansa said. “That you liked watching.” She had a sneaking suspicion that watching others was something that excited him. Myranda had often liked to be party to Sansa’s rapes, watching in the corner and touching herself.

 _No_.

     She pulled herself out of that line of thought. _Will this ever go away_? She wondered. Sansa shook off the bad thoughts like a dog shaking off water. It wasn’t fair, she thought, to have no control over these feelings that came over her. The wounds were still so fresh; she didn’t quite know how to deal with their unpredictable appearances. It felt akin to the testing of a wound not quite healed, of scabbing flesh tearing, jagged, with new blood welling forth.

     She felt dirty every single time.

     If Petyr noticed, he said nothing. While Sansa took a deep, calming breath, she watched Petyr tug off his breeches, his fingers working methodically on the laces. He peeled off the layers until he stood before her, naked and rather pleased with himself. His ears and the tip of his nose were pink with excitement—or from the cold, perhaps.

     “You _definitely_ liked watching them,” she told him in smug assessment.

     “Who, me?” His grin widened.

     “On my lap,” Sansa told him. She lowered her voice. “Please.”

     At her smaller, quieter show of courtesy, Petyr did as he was bade. He held his weight on his arms for a moment, before settling across her knees.

     “Like this?”

     Sansa shifted for a moment, and felt his cock hardening against her thigh, even through the fabric of her dress.

     “Don’t you dare spill yourself all over my dress,” she warned him. The prospect seemed to have never occurred to him, but the corner of his smile was visible as he bent over the furs on the bed.

     “I’m serious, Petyr.”

     “Oh yes, of course. As serious as one can be in a situation like this.”

     “I’m always serious,” she replied, grateful that he couldn’t see her tiny smile.

     Sansa reached out and ran a finger down the length of Petyr’s spine, and was pleased to see him shiver in response. She touched him lightly, massaging his lower back, his hips, all the while avoiding his backside. Petyr let out a breath, and Sansa felt him relax against her just a little more.

     Good. She was pleased, but she said nothing to him. Her touches were light, and she let them communicate her pleasure with him, her gratitude at his willingness to indulge her. Petyr sighed softly.

     “May I speak?”

     “No, you may not,” Sansa said, grin widening. She relished this ability, this control. Petyr accepted her words with another, more wistful, sigh.

     When the first slap came down on his backside, openhanded, Petyr jumped. He made a small noise—of protest or of pleasure, she couldn’t be sure—and gripped bed coverings with a sudden fist. She smacked her palm against the other cheek, and his response was instantaneous. She delighted in the way he bounced in her lap.

     Sansa alternated between rubbing and spanking the reddening muscles of his ass. As it was, she could barely conceal her feelings of joy and satisfaction, hearing the huffs as Petyr struggled to even his breathing. He was trying to avoid crying out. The sting of her hand drew out a redness on that part of him, pulling the blood closer to the surface. He let out a small squeak of surprise when she reached beneath him to squeeze his sac. Retaliation for the noise—they were surrounded by people, by tents, after all—was a smack to the reddened center of his torment.

     Petyr gasped, murmuring an affirmation against the bed. He was hard against her thigh. Sansa massaged and rubbed the red marks in an attempt to be soothing.

     “Quiet, or I’ll have to punish you,” Sansa teased. She heard him let out a huff of breath that sounded like approval. Slapping him again, she reveled in the gulping of air, the harsh exhale that sounded like a whimper on his part.

 

*

 

     Out in the night, both the fox and the owl saw the rabbit from their respective perches, as it left safety and ironweed and dandelion. It meandered towards the meadow. Both predators gauged the right moment to strike. Before the fox could lift a paw, however, the wind changed. It caught a scent.

 _Wolf_.

     And something else, something similar.

     The stink of wolf was sudden and unexpected. Fear braided every sinew to vulpine bone; it didn’t care that the owl now pounced with a screech, snapping up prey and dinner in one fell swoop under the gibbous moon. It didn’t care that its meal was disrupted, stolen. Immediate survival was all that mattered.

     A howl sounded in the distance. The noise was too close for comfort, and the fox darted into the underbrush in a flash of orange, brown, and white fur. The oncoming winter was changing the temperature and the pelts of the woodland inhabitants. With the fast-melting snowfall from earlier, it became a target in its own shifting landscape.

     The hound ran beside the dark-furred wolf, who seemed more darkness with a pair of eyes staring out than flesh and blood. The hound’s paws were clumsier, and he was loud and slow in comparison to the wolf—but the she-wolf didn’t seem to mind. She pursued the fox hungrily, her mouth a stiff, curving terror. The hound bayed to announce their pursuit, before quieting. Sansa felt an awkwardly-long tongue lolling in her mouth, with spittle and foamy excitement upon her lips. Their lips.

     Ruan was hunting with Chaika.

     It was as if she had double vision. She saw Petyr, bent across her with his pale, naked back, and his reddened backside, lying in her lap. Then there was the moon and rich smells of bloodlust and fear. Lots of fear.

     Sansa felt a baseness growing within herself, and for half a moment she wanted to run off into the woods. To go join Ruan and Chaika. _That would be a sight_ , she thought, almost amused. In this double vision, she felt she knew the woods better than she knew the man before her. She was still tempted to run out there into the darkness.

     The wolf found the hunted animal beneath a persimmon bush. Without wasting any time, there was a sharp snap of bone as the dark-furred body flew into the failed hiding spot. The dog was right on Chaika’s heels. The wolf had the neck of the lifeless creature in her jaws. She was visibly quite pleased with herself.

     There were scattered bones under the bush, likely from an old meal. Rabbit, the dog knew, sniffing the pitted and cracked remains. Not even the marrow remained in them. Looking up, Chaika’s gaze leveled with Ruan’s, and Ruan—Sansa—started as though they’d been branded.

 _Warg_.

     Sansa gasped aloud.

     “Are you all right?” Petyr asked her.

     “Yes,” she told him, inhaling the scent of his sweat. She rubbed his hips, trying to keep herself from shivering. Whether it was from the cooler air or her short jaunt slipping into Ruan’s skin, she couldn’t be sure. Long moments passed, with only the crackle of the fire filling the air. Her hand stilled, poised atop his lower back.

     Camil had been riding in her wolf. Sansa half-wondered if the older woman could peer out through _her_ eyes, see the scene before _her_. That yellow look that Camil gave went right through her. Could the wolf smell her desire, when she was in another skin?

 _Don’t be foolish_ , she thought. Petyr was talking, and she forced herself to focus on the words as he spoke them into the furs.

     “I liked that,” Petyr admitted. She heard him exhale in a long, slow, breath. He sounded thoughtful, like he hadn’t expected it.

     Sansa squeezed his red ass and was rewarded with a gasp on his part. “Quiet,” she told him. She tried to sound confident, but she still felt somewhat shaky. If she strained to hear over the crackle of flames in the tent brazier, or the occasional voice floating through the camp, Sansa could almost hear the wind sifting through the trees. Or was she in Ruan still?

     Sansa sniffed, but she didn’t smell anything; nothing quite as well as she did inside the dogs’ skins, anyway. She didn’t want to tell Petyr about it, so she wriggled and motioned for him to move off her. She could let it dissolve into the night.

     “Did you like it, too?” Petyr’s voice was quieter as he moved from her lap.

     She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she slapped his ass in punishment for the wetness she discovered in her lap. Her words were stern, but she wore a small smile regardless. “I told you not to make a mess on my dress,” she told him.

     Glancing over at Petyr, she saw his cock was hard, and still leaking a few clear drops. “Sorry,” he apologized.

     She doubted that he was, but she didn’t say it aloud.

     “But…yes, I did like it.” She had liked it more than she expected. Despite her unintentional slip into the woods, riding inside Ruan.

     “Sansa, I want to…”

     “Want to what?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.

     “Let me touch you, and—and be with you. Please.”

     Petyr’s hand was on her hip, rubbing gently, but she didn’t respond to the touch. Nor did she move closer. Her eyes narrowed. She knew what he wanted, even if he hadn’t said. How could she not? The sight of him, cock in hand, his expression almost pleading…it was too much.

     Damn her traitorous body. Sansa felt that familiar wetness, that warmth that jumped straight to her core.

     “No,” she said, shaking her head. She hoped her voice sounded firm, despite her own inner turmoil. “I don’t want to fuck you.”

     It was a lie, but it was the only thing she could say. “Not until after we retake—”

     “Winterfell,” Petyr said, his expression needy. “I know, you have said so before. But Sansa…war is full of uncertainty.”

     “I guess you’ll have to try _harder_ to be certain,” Sansa told him, fully aware of the double entendre. “And you’d best try to ensure that we’re successful.”

     When he made to speak again, to protest, Sansa would have none of it. She cut him off with a raised finger and he fell silent.

     “Petyr, I’m not going to fuck you until we’re safe within the walls of my home—maybe not even until I’m a widow, proper.”

     Petyr sighed wistfully.

     She would not tell him that a part of her wanted to, but she also felt…peculiar. If she mentioned it, he would ask why. There was some sense in her that this was not something to be shared. That to speak of it would only saddle him with unnecessary emotions—and more questions. A part of her worried he would use any utterance to his advantage, to use as leverage to get her to sleep with him. Another, quieter part of her worried he wouldn’t understand, that he would grow afraid of her. That he would react like the superstitious men in camp, those who did all they could to avoid Camildis and her wolf. The ones who hesitated around Jon, too.

     “We are _not_ going to rut like animals in a tent, with people so close,” Sansa told him.

     “It would not be that different from the rest of the camp,” he pointed out.

     If Sansa were to say that she hadn’t noticed the pairings off amongst some of the men—and the few women—in the camp, she would be lying.

     “Sansa, what is wrong?”

     Damn her traitorous body, and damn her readable expression.

     “I want to be in a room that locks,” she said finally. “And I don’t want to think about Ramsay when I…”

     Petyr’s expression grew concerned.

     “I feel as if I’ll see _him_ on top of me,” Sansa finished.

     Petyr reached out, taking her hand in his. She felt his thumb rub across her knuckles soothingly. “I am sorry, Sansa, if you feel I’ve gone too far. I don’t want you to feel that way, I hope you know that.”

     “I don’t want to feel that way, and I—I might scream.”

     She was being truthful. Mostly. But she was feeling those moments, those callings back into horrid memories, less and less when she was with him. Petyr was not like Ramsay. Not at his most icy, his most calculating, or his most venomous. Not even when he looked most like Littlefinger, stroking his pointed beard. And he never showed those facets of himself around her, when they were in private—not if he could help it. It was an effort that she appreciated.

     “Petyr, I…really enjoyed this.” The words were seemingly stuck in her throat; she coughed mildly to try and clear it. Sansa didn’t want him thinking that she was ungrateful. And she wanted to change the subject.

     “That is all that matters,” he replied. Petyr’s expression was open, honest. He rubbed her arm soothingly.

     That he valued her pleasure at all was a sharp contrast to Ramsay. She didn’t say so aloud, but the implication was there. It was always there, hanging like a pot of incense and clouding the air she breathed.

     She pressed her lips to his shoulder gently. Then she nibbled, biting hard enough to bruise the skin.

     She felt the sharp intake of breath as he sat up straighter; she felt his chest expand and his back pulsed beneath her hand. Easing herself off the bed, she knelt before his lap and nudged the tip of his cock. It hadn’t fallen during their conversation, but it twitched at her attention all the same. Petyr’s breath hitched.

     “Are you afraid I’ll bite?” she asked, looking up at him. She leaned her cheek into his thigh. She wondered if he would see the pointed teeth of a hunter when he looked down at her. As though she had forgotten how to hide the wolf in her.

 _Warg_.

     Could he see her eyes turn, see them flicker and change as she saw Camil’s do when they were in the mountains? Sansa wondered if there would be a time—or multiple times—where she became more wolf than girl. If there would be times where she had to apologize for the wilderness inside her.

     Petyr swallowed thickly. “No,” he told her.

     “Good,” was all she said in response. She balanced her weight on one arm, then reached out to grasp the base of his cock with her free hand. Sansa felt a shiver run through him when she kissed his tip. His hand went to her hair, stroking thickly through those loose auburn locks. He was encouraging and possessive with her hair all at once. She took him into her mouth, trying not to think about the only other man she’d done this with.

     Petyr’s hand tightened in her hair. It was as though he were expecting the attention, but it came as a surprise all the same. She felt a shiver course through him and his hips buck.

 _This is mine_ , she thought, feeling possessive. Here in this moment. When Sansa looked up at him, she saw Petyr’s Adam’s apple quiver in the flickering light. She heard his shuddering gasps. Petyr’s hand moved to her shoulder, squeezing tightly.

     Sansa stroked him at his base, feeling the brush of the dark curls there. Pulling back, her fingers slid down his length, and she thumbed at the sensitive spot beneath his head. She heard Petyr emit a soft groan and looked up in time to see a fist pressed to his mouth. The sight pleased her, sent a jolt of lightning through her. She took him in her mouth again, lest he see her looking so pleased with herself and ruin the moment. When she squeezed his sac gently, she heard the same strangled groan.

     After, she took him into her mouth more deeply, and, after a time, felt him stiffen under her. When he came, Sansa swallowed his sticky seed. Petyr looked down at her with nothing but tenderness and gratitude. His hand in her hair relaxed its hold. She felt him begin to stroke and pet her hair gently. She got a sense that it was all he could do, as he panted and caught his breath. His thighs still trembled under her, and a wave of immense satisfaction washed over her. She did this to him.

     “Thank you,” Petyr said gently.

     Sansa gave him a small smile, looking up at him and taking in the sight of Petyr in the afterglow. “Thank you for being willing to…try these sorts of things with me,” she replied, acknowledging the reciprocity of it.

     “My lady, it is my pleasure.” He was wearing that damn smug expression again.

     “Quite literally in this case,” she told him. He grinned lazily at her in response.

 

*

 

The next morning, Petyr had awoken her before the light of dawn broke over the treetops. While she felt a bit dirty, sneaking back to her tent like she’d done something wrong, it was for the best. Petyr had given her a long, slow kiss before she’d snuck out of the tent. It had been nice.

    Thistle appeared at her heels, as solid as the fog that sifted through the tall grass. As though she could sniff out Sansa's intentions, Thistle trotted ahead of her to check for people walking about. The hound periodically doubled back and pushed her furry head beneath Sansa’s hand to guide her.

    “You clever thing,” she told Thistle. She was appreciative. The dog merely snuffled and butted her hand in response.

    At breakfast, Jon did not really look at her. His expression was more sullen than usual. Pouting, even. Sansa paid him no mind at all, pointedly focusing on her breakfast. Then Ghost growled at Petyr, who approached some time after Sansa made her appearance.

    Camil, the nearest to them both, frowned but said nothing.

 _At least one of us knows when to keep her mouth—or her wolf—quiet_ , Sansa thought, somewhat unkindly. She shot Jon what she hoped was a disapproving look.

    She wondered what Jon would say—or Ghost would do—if Jon had caught her with a dark spot in the lap of her dress.

    Camil was skinning the fox. It was Chaika’s kill from last night. When she’d awoken, Sansa had half-thought the jaunt through the woods was a dream. A wolf dream, perhaps. The older woman didn’t comment on the hunt, for which Sansa was grateful. All she said—a suggestion, really—was that they continue with their practice when they stopped at midday.

    Jon accepted it with a nod, and Sansa had no reason to oppose the suggestion, so she agreed as well. If her half-brother could keep his mouth shut about where she’d been, it would be better for all of them. She doubted that he wanted to know specifics. Sansa didn’t want to know the details of Jon’s intimate moments, with Melisandre or anyone, really, and she doubted he would feel any differently.

    The campsite was cleared up, its campfires extinguished and its remains hidden as best they could. Though it seemed doubtful that Ramsay would send outriders this far north—not when he expected them to come down from the Kingsroad, from Castle Black—they could not be too careful.

    By mid-morning, they were off. Sansa let her horse drift farther back in the line, nearer to Petyr’s. She could see him shifting in his saddle.

    “Are you all right, Lord Baelish?” she asked, keeping her voice light and seemingly neutral. When she glanced ahead of them, Jon was half-twisted in his saddle, giving her a brief, serious look.

 _He is always so serious_ , she thought to herself. Jon had been this way since they were children. Older now, his frown seemed to settle on him more heavily. Sansa considered herself above empty glares and unspoken judgment, however, and pretended not to notice him.

    “I am, my lady,” Petyr replied, giving her a reassuring smile. “Or I will be; either way, it does not matter.”

    Sansa lowered her voice. “I’m glad you’re not hurt,” she said. Petyr reached out and patted her glove lightly.

    There were birds flying above the trees ahead of them. Camil rode up to Jon, saying something in his ear. Sansa couldn’t hear what he said, but Chaika stood at the top of the next hill, looking at something in the distance.

    Then a pair of their outriders crested the hill, with a woman on a horse between them. She looked to be in her thirties, with dark hair poking out from beneath her hood. When she looked down at their party, Sansa saw a plain face and round chin. The woman was familiar to her, somehow, but the sudden—and unexpected—arrival of a stranger made her tense. She saw Petyr go stony in her periphery.

    Sansa twitched her reigns, urging her horse to the front of the line. When the standard bearer appeared, holding a banner with a black axe on a silver field, she relaxed. It was Jonelle. Jonelle Cerwyn, Cley’s elder sister. _What is she doing out here_? Sansa wondered.

    Pulling down her hood, Jonelle smiled when she recognized them.

    “Lady Cerwyn,” Jon said, his expression puzzled. He looked to his outrider.

    “We found her’n a party of about thirty men down the ridge, near tha’ keep further on,” the man explained.  

    “Lord Snow,” Jonelle said, smiling brightly at him. She had a small gap between her teeth; it made her look completely genuine. “Lady Stark. We received your raven—and a raven from Bear Island. Unfortunately, we could not reply— _Ramsay Bolton_ —” Jonelle spat the words out as if they were caustic and burning her tongue.

     “—When he killed my father for not paying his taxes on time, he took our maester with him. Maester Rhodry. He threatened to kill him if we didn’t let him go to Winterfell.” Her face was screwed up in distaste.

 _Of course he did_ , Sansa thought. Ramsay had no regard for maesters, or their vows to serve holdfasts instead of individual lords and ladies.

    “But Cley and I agree—we want to help you take back your home,” Jonelle continued. “I’m sorry we don’t have many men to offer, but we lost so many when they marched south with Robb.”

    “How can we know that you mean what you say?”

    Petyr had sidled up to their group, still ahorse, to listen to Jonelle’s pledge.

    “I don’t have the pleasure, my lord,” the plump woman said, shooting him a dark look. “I may look like I’m silly, or—or insincere, but I listened to my father being skinned alive by that monster. Cley too; we heard it for hours. When it stopped, the silence was worse.”

    “It’s always worse,” Sansa told her somberly.

     She believed the older woman; she remembered her when she was a girl, and Jonelle and her brother would accompany their father on trips to her home on business. It was always something boring, regarding the harvest or repairs, but Jonelle had joined her with Septa Mordane during sewing lessons, and her embroidery had been lovely. Though much younger, Sansa’s work had always been better. Jonelle had never seemed to mind. Cley had enjoyed mucking about in the yard, hitting Jon and Robb with sticks and playing at swords.

     “You’re welcome among us, my lady,” Jon said, turning momentarily to give the Lord Protector of the Vale a disapproving look. “You and your men. We’ll try and get your maester back.”

     Jonelle smiled at them almost serenely. “Thank you, it would be a terrible winter if we were without a maester to tend to our sick. But I’m more concerned about the immediate future, and hanging the Bastard of Bolton.”

     “You and I are alike in that, Lady Jonelle,” Sansa said honestly. Jonelle Cerwyn’s smile in response was grim and vaguely predatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from a chapter title in Nightwood, a novel by Djuna Barnes. It is one of my favorite books, tbh, although quite a few people say it's a very confusing novel. Robin Vote and Nora Flood are two very messy, very real characters, and I love the circles they weave around each other.
> 
> In the books, Cley Cerwyn is killed at the Battle of Winterfell by Ramsay Snow, interestingly enough. Ramsay shoots an arrow through Cley's eye, leaving Jonelle the only living member of House Cerwyn. In the books, she swears fealty to the Boltons and attends the marriage of Ramsay to "Arya" Stark, but Roose Bolton believes the Cerwyn men are not as loyal as they seem (duh). For some reason, the show runners saw fit to leave Cley alive (I think we all know why, and it rhymes with risogyny). The idea that they wouldn't at least send a few men to help Jon out is laughable; remnants do join Stannis during his campaign south from Castle Black. I guess I'd like to see other families who have been devastated by Robb's war, and how they're surviving under the tyranny of House Bolton.
> 
> And no, Jonelle is not who Melisandre saw in her flames. :)


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